


The Art of Insolence

by Tspoon



Series: Trone d'Amour [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A Distinct Lack of Propriety, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Grantaire, Bonding, Boxer Grantaire, Country Gentry, Developing Friendships, England (Country), Family Dynamics, I Do Mean The Slow In Slowburn, Internalized Homophobia, Jane Austen told me romance is stored in the not talking about your feelings for literal months, M/M, Not Based on a Jane Austen Story, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Probably Subconscious Influences Tho, Slow Build, Slow Burn, growing feelings with patience and time like an ill tempered houseplant, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 11:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 100,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tspoon/pseuds/Tspoon
Summary: “It is of no worry.” There was absolutely no sign of dishevelment or displeasure in any aspect of his presentation, but Grantaire could still sense that they were an unexpected presence. They would not be turned away, even the most prideful of city dwellers would see that as the social suicide it was. One scorned family in a town of this size and you have scorned them all, condemned on the tongues of wives and consequently in the eyes of all in their society. The man smiled, and Grantaire could read all of this in the expression. “It has been so long since we had come back to our house here, my wife spoke often of how she missed its charm.”“I am sure you will find it wonderfully unchanged in its charm, sir. The years of your absence has had little impact on our good community.” Grantaire said. He could hear his father’s sigh.The return of the Enjolras family to their long abandoned summer home leads to an unexpected connection between two ill-behaved heirs. A Regency Era AU
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Series: Trone d'Amour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927525
Comments: 175
Kudos: 158





	1. Gilded Reflections

Grantaire’s family was not in such a disadvantageous position as some. He supposed it was an equal claim that he was not as privileged as others, as it was all a matter of perspective, but the second he voiced any sort of opinion of that ilk he would fall prey to his family’s agreements. There was nothing more ill suited to Grantaire then that of sharing a common opinion, especially one held by those of his household. There could be no better marker for a bad idea, in Grantaire’s opinion, than his family’s conviction that it should be executed.

Perhaps that was unfair. Grantaire certainly was no great source of wisdom and propriety. It was easy to imagine that he had been the greatest fuel for the local gossip mill these last years. In a town of this size one could not walk down the street oddly without causing some scandal, and he had certainly done more than that. Yet such things were of no matter, as Grantaire had strictly chosen to ignore them completely. It could be worse, it could be better, who was he to care?

Unfortunately, the world was full of people not nearly so apathetic as he. So it was that Grantaire and his father made their way down the lane in the bright afternoon sun. It came through the tall trees along either side in a fractured way that saturated the color of all that it landed on, leaving the mossy floor a vibrant green with dark carriage tracks cut through to mud. Grantaire allowed the faint warmth of its beams as a comfort, and the sharp smell of wild onion as a distraction from whatever lecture his father believed him attentive to. 

The walk itself was part of a carefully formulated plan, or at least was assumed so by Grantaire. His father had spoken no words to him between the event of his being called down and their departure, certainly not to confide in any scheme. It was by his best guess that they were to call on someone, presumably newcomers. They could not have come on horseback alone, for fear of being mistaken for those of a lower standing, and to take the carriage would suggest some expectation or imposition. Or so would be speculation. Walking was their solution then, to seem casual in their visit, stopping by on the way to town or somewhere else. 

Having had his stores discovered and confiscated yet again by the maid-of-all-work, Grantaire was of an unpleasant soberness for this meeting. He was sure it was evident on his face, which undoubtedly was unsuccessful in masking his displeasure as they moved. Grantaire did his best to ignore his surroundings for the sound of the mud beneath his boots and the birds calling out from the nearby brush, as was his best attempt at enjoyment.

“You are wearing too many shades of brown. Could you not have dressed nicer?” His father said, speaking for the first time since their departure. 

“I thought the intention was to seem casual.” Grantaire responded, making a gamble on his intuition.

“For most even “casual” involves some effort.” His father said. “Next time I would suggest your blue waistcoat.” Grantaire thought it a rather bold assumption that they would be welcomed back.

There were many ways to measure Grantaire’s role as a dissapointment. He had never been successfully trained out of speaking to the servers at the dinner table, for one. The drink was another, along with his lack of particularity when it came to his company. And lest anyone forget, not only had he chosen to train as an artist rather than take up any respectable position, but he had not even succeeded at that. By these accounts, there was very little to be proud of when it came to Grantaire.

These were all crosses that his father silently bore. He had always reacted so, from sighing deeply at the sight of his young son returning covered in mud when they had guests, to simply retreating into his office without another word when he spoke of his career plans. He made no effort to halt any of Grantaire’s behaviors, but it did not need to be said aloud that this is not what he had hoped for in an heir. 

For this reason, he often avoided presenting Grantaire in society where it was not necessary. And, for this reason, Grantaire was surprised to have been called to his company now. He was the sort of son a father did his best to avoid ownership of, if he was to be part of his father’s social weaving he could not conceive of the purpose as to why. The curiosity of it had been enough to compel his obedience in following along on this venture.

“May I ask with whom we are visiting?” Grantaire inquired, matching his father’s stiffness in some degree of mockery. 

“The Enjolras family.” His father replied. 

The name held the vaguest of familiarity to Grantaire. A faded recollection of tall and blonde figures seen across a ballroom were all that the name was accompanied with in his mind, as well as a certainty that they had lived here before as a sort of summer rotation. He hardly thought their continued presence was worth such formality of greeting as his father treated it. The best explanation was that they had been away many years, and were just now returning. Grantaire supposed he had heard nothing of their presence last season, and he himself had been away before then.

Should they reside in the city, this action would be entirely inappropriate. Exceptions were often made in the limited society of the countryside, but it was clear as they came into view of the house that this family was not their equal. The house, while not quite so grandiose as to warrant the title of palace, certainly was far greater than their own stead. Even Grantaire’s father faltered his step at the sight of it. He had passed the structure before, but never known the family tied to it. Its presence seemed only that much greater knowing that it now had inhabitants. Potential eyes peering out of every window, movement through every door. It was if the house had taken a deep inhalation, expanding with its new contents. 

“Will they offer work to the local residents, or do you think they shipped in enough staff to fill this monstrosity?” Grantaire asked, unapologetic in his volume. 

“Watch your tone.” His father sighed. 

Grantaire, out of sympathy or disinterest was any man’s guess, fell silent. He let them be ushered through the unnecessarily large doors without comment, watched his father hand the calling card over without complaint, and followed him into the library where the servant told them to wait. The room was disappointingly dim in comparison to the outdoors, with absolutely no sign of having recently been unpacked. They must have prepared this room early, Grantaire thought, out of fear of some entitled country gentlemen come calling. How convenient. 

Grantaire wondered if it would be considered horribly poor conduct if he were to laugh. He knew it would, but the urge maintained its overwhelming presence in such a way that it surely showed in every twitch of his expression. Allowing the actual action would be a social sin of too great severity to ever return from, but he could not help in wondering if he was the first to react so. 

Grantaire was restless. Usually when he grew so, it would be in his instinct to grow disrespectful, put on the guise of ease and carelessness as a way to create an echo of the feeling. Were he calling on pretentious fellows at the Academy, or drunks with unfounded egos, he surely would. Yet that was a privilege he had lost in being brought back from London. Here he had little else to do but swallow his tongue.

There is a unique experience, it must be observed, of being in a room full of objects worth more than one’s life. The gilded decorations glint like a flame closing in, triggering all those animalistic instincts of a stag in the midst of a forest fire. Thick drapery closed off the exit of the windows, and servants flanked the door. He would call it an ornate snare, save that it implied that the owner had any want of them to be in it. 

As it was, there was little faith in Grantaire’s mind that they were welcome guests. They would not be turned away, even the most prideful of city dwellers would see that as the social suicide it was. One scorned family in a town of this size and you have scorned them all, condemned on the tongues of wives and consequently in the eyes of all in their society. 

“How kind of you to call on us, Mr. Grantaire, was it? I believe we were introduced some years ago.” The man of the house, a tall figure with sharp features and white hair, greeted them with a porcelain smile. There was absolutely no sign of dishevelment or displeasure in any aspect of his presentation, but Grantaire could sense that they were an unexpected presence. 

“We hoped it would be our privilege to welcome you here.” Grantaire’s father returned as they both stood. They were quicky gestured to seat themselves again, though even the informal movements seemed stiff. 

He wished again to laugh at the inhospitable nature of it. It was that or suffocate, though he was certain his father would prefer he do the latter. What would the man before them do, should he suddenly collapse from such an affliction? Would he call on the doctor with all the haste of a saint, or would he allow Grantaire to expire and stuff him with wool so to join the ranks of immobile servants they had passed in the halls. 

“Wine?” Asked their formidable overseer, the man of the house and a tall figure with sharp features and a porcelain smile, moving so the golden embroidery of his waistcoat caught the already stifled light and flicked it back into Grantaire’s eyes. 

“If I could so oblige myself.” Grantaire answered, waiting to see if the server of his draught would blink. He counted to ten before the man moved from his sight. His eyelid had not flickered. 

“We would not wish to impose too long, we only came to welcome you back to town.” Grantaire’s father said, looking away from the quickly disappearing liquid. 

“It is of no worry.” There was absolutely no sign of dishevelment or displeasure in any aspect of his presentation, but Grantaire could still sense that they were an unexpected presence. They would not be turned away, even the most prideful of city dwellers would see that as the social suicide it was. One scorned family in a town of this size and you have scorned them all, condemned on the tongues of wives and consequently in the eyes of all in their society. The man smiled, and Grantaire could read all of this in the expression. “It has been so long since we had come back to our house here, my wife spoke often of how she missed its charm.” 

There were many ways to spend a pleasant afternoon, by Grantaire’s understanding. One could take a walk through the garden, should the weather permit it, enjoying the early spring sun and nose-tickling starts of new life. Equally enjoyable would be to go out riding, or perhaps remain entirely unsociable and tuck oneself away with a canvas and a bottle. One can easily envision the pleasant solitude of all such actions, and Grantaire would pride himself in enjoying such simplicity so thoroughly. It is understandable, then, how his mood soured every moment he was kept from pursuing such actions by the trivialities of social niceties. At least he had the wine to keep him company. 

“I am sure you will find it wonderfully unchanged in its charm, sir. The years of your absence has had little impact on our good community.” Grantaire said. He could hear his father’s sigh, but the man’s smile was unwavering. His eyes shifted their place at his words.

Grantaire pressed the cool glass to his bottom lip in quiet discomfort as the new subject of attention. He should have anticipated it, by speaking, but Grantaire was never the sort to think much ahead of his actions. There was a shift in the heaviness of the room, and Grantaire wondered if he truly would suffocate now. The man moved forward slightly in attentiveness, and Grantaire had the sudden impression of being closely observed. 

“You must have had such a feeling when returning home from your schooling. How good of you to return and care for your parents.” Had he not still trapped the glass between his lips, Grantaire may have grimaced at the misunderstanding. “Where did you attend? Oxford? Cambridge? Perhaps you have met my son.”

There was a mirror above the fireplace. An over-decorative, weighty thing. It was placed so that it did not reflect anyone in the room, even if they were to stand, and therefore made entirely useless. Grantaire followed the golden flora of its frame with his eyes, avoiding contact with the man before him, and projected his trapped discomfort onto the reflective surface.

“No, my son attended the Royal Academy.” Grantaire’s father said. He admired the strength it must have taken to keep disappointment from his tone. 

“A respectable enough aspiration.” The man murmured, as if trying to convince himself of the fact. Grantaire could not possibly guess at his reasoning, but he appreciated the not entirely unfavorable reaction. Now if only no one would inform him of Grantaire’s success in his aspirations.

Grantaire’s father caught scent of the dangerous subject, and shifted imperceptibly. Grantaire could only tell because of the movement it brought on the seat cushion they both shared. He gave an empty sort of smile, which was quickly returned. Grantaire thumbed over the brocade, letting the small semblance of roughness be the only genuine experience in the room.

“Is your son enjoying his studies?” Mr. Enjolras smiled. 

“He has returned with us this season. Unfortunately, he could not join me in this greeting, as he was otherwise indisposed.” Attention was returned to Grantaire, though even at this second instance he was equally surprised. “He is of age with you, I’m sure he would greatly appreciate for you to call on us again.” 

This request caught both Grantaire and his father by complete surprise. He had been brought along as a conversation starter at the best of intentions, or perhaps only an accessory, added to the room of decoration. Grantaire was entirely unsure when the misunderstanding of his character had occurred, because certainly no one who recognized him as he was would wish to create a connection to their family.

“He would be glad to.” Grantaire’s father answered, having recovered first. He was likely elated at the concept of a young gentleman providing good influence on his own son. Grantaire was left with no choice but to agree.

“Certainly, I do not believe your son and I are of acquaintance.” Likely of his own effort. He could not imagine even his younger self seeking out contact with someone of this stature. Grantaire imagined him to be pompous, or perhaps even dry. He could not envision any subject of interest that made his home here.

“He could benefit from companionship.” The man of the house said. “What say you that you call again in a few days, when my son’s affairs have settled?”

“I would be glad to.” Grantaire said, parroting his father’s previous words. He wondered if there had been something in the wine. 

It seemed his agreement had been some unspoken signal that their visit had ended, with both men standing and giving their farewells. Grantaire was only momentarily delayed, but he felt swept from the room before he could think a word. In the next moments he and his father were down the fall and through the doors, with the grand house closed to them yet again. 

His father was pleased, he thought, at Grantaire’s unexpected recruitment as a companion. He said nothing, but the nothing was a far lighter one than it often was. He walked ahead with purpose, leaving Grantaire to trail somewhat behind as his thoughts continued to chase themselves. His father may be glad of it, but that left Grantaire in solitary possession of the confusion 

He looked back to the house before they turned into the wooded lane, at those many windows he had thought so full of potential eyes. He wondered if any belonged to the younger Enjolras, and if a respectable gentleman such as he would even have the curiosity to look beyond his home’s finery. Likely not. Grantaire would dread their meeting, but then he would certainly ruin his mistakenly good reputation and it would be over and done. A single insufferable afternoon with an entitled heir was not the worst of punishments, and Grantaire could surely bear it.


	2. A Fingernail’s Distance Between Continents

It was with a bleary conviction that Grantaire in his new state of wakefulness knew that it was raining. All senses confirmed it, the dampness of the grass, the sound of its fall, even the smell of it, if he wished to be particular. He lifted the empty pages of his sketchbook away from his face, staring up into the leaves above for the final confirmation. It was a windless rain, so his natural roof had little movement save for when the green shields took hits from those watery arrows. One such drop snuck past the ranks, falling onto Grantaire in close enough proximity to his eye for it to twitch in reaction. The cool spot provided motive to move, if nothing else.

He sat up, tucking the little booklet into his coat as he did. Grantaire let his eyes wander, no urgency to his movements despite the change in weather. There was a soft greyness to his surroundings, a muted mobility as the rain provided a barrier to his sight. He yawned, another drop falling on his nose with the movement. 

Had he been there long? There was a vague recollection of a night spent in town to avoid dinner guests. He must not have made it entirely home, instead preferring to make this tree his new stead and sleep under it. The resulting stiffness in his back and pain in his head were no friendly combination, and he strongly wished for sleep to return and take him far away from the experience. 

He had, apparently, been spotted by his sitting up through one of the house windows. It was not many moments before a figure came stumbling out one of the small doors, slipping on the muddy steps in their haste. Upon closer inspection Grantaire recognized Bossuet, jogging over to him with a broad smile and no small amount of hurry.

“I am glad to have found you, your father wanted me to have you dressed and in the carriage at half ten.” Bossuet, as was his nature, was entirely genuine in his gladness. Grantaire felt a pinch of guilt at causing his friend any stress, but Bossuet held on to none of it. 

It did mean Grantaire could not escape from following, as his father likely knew in sending Bossuet as messenger. He used the first two fingers on each hand to press the underside of his brow and the bridge of his nose simultaneously, hoping to alleviate some of the pain. It had little effect, and he sighed deeply before taking the hand extended to him and standing. 

“Were there any demands to my wardrobe on this occasion?” Grantaire inquired, already tugging apart his cravat as Bossuet held the door open for him. He snapped the slightly dampened fabric in the air just as the latch closed behind him. “He takes this interest from the new lady of the house, I swear it. He never held any attention for the details of color before, he was blind enough to them on a canvas.” 

The latter half Bossuet made no comment on. He would say nothing against the master of the house, nor the lady, particularly not within its walls. Grantaire was perhaps overzealous in his judgements, he had no close relationship with his mother and was likewise distant from his father’s second wife. She was a quiet, unobtrusive figure, quite his opposite. Grantaire was fairly certain they both felt wrongfooted around one another. 

“He recommended your blue brocade waistcoat.” Bossuet answered from the steps. Grantaire paused at their foot, fingers ceasing their unbuttoning. 

Ah, so his father had decided to enforce Grantaire’s visit to the Enjolras family at last. He had avoided any mention of them for near a week, but of course that had not actually meant his father had forgotten. He sighed deeply, pulling at his loose collar so to give the air a freer release. Of all days, it had to be this one. 

“I will wear the green.” Grantaire said, demanding that small amount of rebellion. 

A very short time later, as was Bossuet’s effect, Grantaire was redressed and in the carriage headed out. His hair had been unsalvageable, but Bossuet had been fairly sure it was free of leaves at his departure. He had not been persuaded into the blue, but his father had not been there to see him leave, so the gesture was an empty one. 

Grantaire slid down in the empty carriage, tucking his chin to his chest and watching the tops of trees pass from the low angle at which he resided. The position was by no means comfortable, but it was the closest thing to sleep that Grantaire could achieve. The jostling brought by each unevenness in the road meant his head repeatedly collided with its resting spot at less than gentle speeds, but it hurt less than the original ache. 

It took a rather knowing knock from the driver for Grantaire to sit up even after they had stopped. So a footman would witness his impropriety should the door be opened just now, Grantaire did not think he would suffer greatly because of it. He stepped out, using a hand to shield himself from the still falling rain. The house loomed up before him, even more menacing with its limits concealed in the haze. Every window seemed dark, as if it had been left vacant once again. 

He was guided to the same library as before, where Grantaire felt he could not slouch for fear of being pricked by some decorative assailant. The books, though nearly hidden by the heavy shelving, were Grantaire’s only point of interest. He wondered if any of them had been touched since his last presence here. There was no dust to spill such secrets, but Grantaire still doubted their movement. 

A servant came to carefully place wine in the room, but other than that Grantaire was left alone still. It was a large house, he excused some time for the effort it would take to inform the residents of his arrival, but as Grantaire watched more minutes tick past the clockfaces’s reflection he began to doubt. Perhaps they had seen his minor state of dishevelment from the window, and were now devising some excuse to refuse seeing him. Or rather he had come at a bad time, and they had no staff to spare and inform him. 

Grantaire speculated, and he grew restless. As there was nothing to otherwise engage him, his eyes began to wander in search of entertainment. They landed on a painted globe about the size of his hand which sat alongside the other end of the seat he had chosen. He used his hands to quietly push himself closer, reaching out a gentle finger to turn it. The paint on its surface was intricately done, and he admired the artistry of the careful hands behind its creation. There was no hand glass accompanying it, so he could not make out all of the script on the circumferential supports. 

He sat up at the sound of a door slamming some distance away. Muted voices followed it, but Grantaire could hear enough to tell they were shouting. Even with strain he could not make out specific words, much to his disappointment. If there was some emergency, surely he could leave this room to investigate. With an uncomfortable sort of half-straightening he peered out the window, but saw no sign of any rushing past servants or other calls to alarm. 

The voices went silent, and Grantaire grudgingly returned to his seat. In the next moment the doors were pushed violently open, the loud sound of their collisions with the walls startling Grantaire back to his feet. It was as if a large gust of wind had suddenly swept through the hall, blowing them open and carrying something past. When they swung closed again, a figure had joined Grantaire on the library’s side. 

Grantaire had wondered what the first expression he would see on the young heir’s face would be. Disdain, perhaps, or disinterest. His father’s curiosity had been a misunderstanding, and not one Grantaire expected to be echoed in his son. He expected a once-over and an upturned nose, or perhaps the false charms of a young man particularly well adjusted to society. What Grantaire had not anticipated was undisguised rage. 

When the man stepped forward, Grantaire likely would have stepped back, had the seat not prevented him. In the times of Grantaire’s life where he had seen such an expression paired with a rapid approach, it had often resulted in the need for more physical defenses. His hands curled reflexively, though did not get their chance at action as the charging force halted just out of reach. 

“I,” The man began, voice taking on the ragged edge of a snarl, “Do not know what my father has told you, but I have no interest in being assigned some small-minded companion to guide me in the ways of respect and mannerly virtue. Leave at once.” 

It has often been said by Grantaire and his friends alike that his mouth does not share the same instincts as his fists. In his stance he was defensive and cornered, one might even think he looked afraid. But fear had never been a sure tool in controlling Grantaire’s tongue, instead often loosening it. 

“But I wouldn’t dare disobey our father’s wishes,” He said, with all the false earnestness he could manage, watching the rage burn brighter into fury. “They so wished for us to become acquainted. You would do better to listen, it is as Pastor Andrews says every Sunday, ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is-’”

“I have no interest in you or your Pastor’s words. Did you not hear me? Get out.” There was an unrelenting intensity to being the direct recipient of the younger Enjolras’s anger. No blows had been landed on him, but he felt worn down nonetheless. At the same time as it was exhausting, Grantaire was invigorated. 

“It is raining, and I have walked all the way here.” Grantaire lied. “Surely you would not force me out?” 

That burning gaze finally left Grantaire and turned to the window, where rain still fell steadily. The anger did not leave his frame, but he visibly straightened in what Grantaire imagined was an attempt to reign it back in. Grantaire waited for his next words with interest, watching as his companion’s chin raised as if he were about to project some great speech.

“It would be cruel of me to force that on you, as my father certainly tricked you into coming in the first place. You may remain here until the rain passes, but my disinterest in speaking to you stands.” It was declared with a finality that one was instinctively motivated to agree with. 

Grantaire was brushed past, Enjolras retreating to a chair far behind Grantaire’s original seating. Completely unbothered by the rudeness, he pivoted so to follow his path. Grantaire was continuously ignored as the man sat, snapped, for the first time in Grantaire’s witnessing, a book open, and made all the motions of being completely engrossed in reading. 

For some moments, Grantaire could not react. He stayed standing and staring, which Enjolras was certainly aware of, if the frustrated flickering of his gaze was any indicator. There was an overwhelming sense of petulance from the behavior, and further a feeling of familiarity. Of all things Grantaire had expected from this meeting, he had not anticipated finding someone as equally trapped as he. For all that he tried to restrain it, Grantaire let out a loud laugh. 

Enjolras started at the noise, dropping his book in surprise. This made Grantaire laugh harder, doubling over with the effort. He straightened, the back of his hand an attempted barrier, but broke it again upon seeing Enjolras’s mixed expression of anger and confusion. 

“Ah, forgive me Enjolras,” He said in his recovery. “May I call you Enjolras? I feel we are past the formalities of “Mr”s and so on at this stage.” He made his way over to the yet untouched wine, pouring himself a glass and downing it easily. “I will readily admit, that was the most exciting introduction you could have possibly offered.”

He had left Enjolras entirely unbalanced by his shift in character. The startled look of confusion had not left, and was on its way to overtaking the anger from before. He remained in the slightly curled position, wide eyes following Grantaire as he moved animatedly about the room, wine glass in hand. The energy of their interaction had created some sort of frenzy in Grantaire, and manifested in his sudden need for movement. 

“You… are not?” Enjolras asked hesitantly, as if he was unsure what his true question even was.

“A man of virtue and banality? I am not.” Grantaire finished for him. “There are far too many stains upon by character. Of the great many things I have been accused of, this is the first time I add the charge of respectable. Degenerate or debauchee are my more common claims.” 

This was Grantaire’s needling attempt at information. Surely a first born was not forced into confinement by his family for nothing. If he needed guidance, he must have gone astray. He did not think it was a similar path to his own, though, as Enjolras’s expression only hardened again. 

“You are a drunk.” He said.

““First you are angry with me that I am stiff, and now I face disappointment for loosening? However shall I please you?” Grantaire said, allowing the suggestiveness to hint in his words. Enjolras seemed to make no note of it.

“Why were you not honest? I had misunderstood your intentions, why did you continue my illusions?”

“I do not pretend to understand my own whims.” Grantaire approached, placing the glass beside Enjolras’s forgotten book. “We must play games, even with ourselves, in a town such as this. There is not much of exterior interest.” 

Enjolras had not changed from a mask of confusion as he spoke, and Grantaire decided to finally end his torment. He was fascinated, certainly, but it seemed the change alone had left Enjolras too unsure to continue with any of the intensity he had possessed before. Grantaire had his attention, but it was most consumed by Enjolras’s own thoughts.

“Now I will leave, as you asked.” Enjolras opened his mouth, but Grantaire cut him off. “Ah, yes, I suppose I was dishonest about my transport as well. You have no worries as a host. In fact, I thank you greatly for entertaining me.”

Grantaire bowed to the still seated Enjolras before making his way for the doors. His energy had not yet subsided, and he shared none of the step he had possessed when first entering the building. His father would certainly not get an accurate account of this visit, but perhaps for once Grantaire could look favorably on his social ventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy wrote this chapter in not a lot of hours. May regret posting the draft we'll see


	3. Bedsprings

“Get yourself off of there before you fall to your death.” Musichetta admonished. “What a fool you look.”

Grantaire huffed, though the movement made him wobble rather precariously. He could easily imagine the indignity of his appearance, hanging halfway out his window and barely a foot left touching the floor inside. Brittle vines clinging to stone were his only base, small thorns prying at the less-than-delicate skin of his palms. One arm extended as far as possible past the edge of the frame, shaking somewhat with the strain. It left Musichetta with a rather singular view. 

“Musichetta, my dear, that is hardly a threat.” He said, making no effort to change in his position. “I have no fear of death nor foolishness, yet I do not think something so lowly as a window to be what does me in.” A loud snort came from behind him as Musichetta went about her duties. She had seen far worse from him, certainly, and was never the sort to withhold audible judgement. 

“Oh? Have you some high expectations?” She asked. If Grantaire were to picture her actions behind him, he would imagine it was undergoing some battle against the bedsheets.

“Certainly!” Grantaire insisted, grunting as he attempted to reach further. “I will be challenged to a duel over my slanderous speech, only for it to be revealed that my tongue will forever be sharper than my shot.”

Certainly it would be considered a morose thing to imagine one’s own death, but Grantaire could not help in having preferences. Where was the poetry in a gentle passing? Grantaire could not guarantee he would be mourned, but he had no interest in a dull end. Such were the prices often paid for those sort of things.

“That is hardly something to be revealed.” Musichetta commented, not at all hiding her words from his hearing. Grantaire had to reorient himself back to what they had been saying, his train of thought having departed their conversation. 

A sound of triumph preceded Grantaire swinging himself back into the room, the spoils of his efforts held high in his grasp. He let the momentum carry it into Musichetta’s line of vision, as he too returned to the safety of the room’s floor. The small abrasions on the palms of his hands went ignored. 

“The first bud of spring! Lady Proserpina has smiled on us at last.” 

He held it high, as if offering the little petals to the heavens themselves. It was a small thing, barely a blushing shade away from white. He had only just spotted it on the wall at his return, the plan solidifying when he saw which window it neighbored. Musichetta approached as he pulled at the petals so to open it more widely, peering at his bounty with a fare less cheerful expression

“Prospero and peonies it may be, why did you have to go and pluck it before it had bloomed?” She asked, pinching at his arm.

Grantaire resented the mournful expression for souring his victory, pulling the flower from her gaze and tucking it into the button hole of his waist-coat haphazardly. If he alone would appreciate it, why not make it a gift to himself? He had seen the vines, there would be plenty to follow. He had severed a head of the hydra, not slain the beast.

“What reason is there, but to hold a new beginning in my grasp?” He asked, letting his arms spread wide to encompass all of spring within them. 

He had meant the words to be playful, but Musichetta noted something else in his tone. She laid the work in her hands down carefully, turning to Grantaire with a stern expression. He knew what she would ask long before she actually spoke the words, already feeling indignant in response.. 

“Where is it?”

“What could you mean?” Grantaire asked with no element of innocence. Musichetta was hardly a stupid woman, and would not be fooled by such weak avoidance. 

“R.” 

He let some semblance of conviction stand, refusing to answer. Her stare was as unwavering as Grantaire’s refusal to meet it. Eventually he sighed, allowing the inevitable outcome, and gestured with a careful indifference. 

“Same as before.” Musichetta had always been among the few Grantaire could not successfully argue against. 

She moved over to one of the many blank canvases along his wall, as it was Grantaire’s habit to drag them up from his studio space and stare at their blankness late into the night, lifting one to pull the small flask from its balanced place on the wood frame. With practiced motions she carried it to the window, emptying its contents into the garden below. Grantaire moved to stand beside her, watching the liquid’s path mournfully. 

“Can you blame me for wanting some giddiness at the new season?” He was met with disbelief. 

“Just as you wanted warmth during the bitter winter?” She was sparring him the lecture, one they both knew he would not take to heart. As sweet as “doing right by his family” and general approval sounded in the light of day, the bottle always called stronger at the sun’s fall. He much preferred Bossuet and Joly’s approach, where they chose rather to accompany his drinking rather than attempt to stop it, ensuring his moderation and safety through that respect. 

“Insolence.” He muttered without weight. 

Grantaire’s family did not keep much staff. Most of the land went to tenant farmers, and the housework was split between a relatively small number. Those who were there had been for many years. Musichetta, being just enough years Grantaire’s senior, had been a constant presence as he grew up. Perhaps had she been less suited to managing him, his parents would have done away with her at the first sign of their informality. As it was, even Grantaire was unsure to what wild lengths he would reach without her steady presence. His years at the Academy were not encouraging indicators. 

Their relationship was unusual, immensely so. In a larger house it was unlikely that a man of his age would have any consistent contact with the female staff, in the professional sense at least. He would have a valet, and perhaps scullery maids that would scurry in and out like mice, silent and quick. Bossuet helped his father dress, much in the way of a valet, but as for the rest they distributed their jobs indiscriminately, and with no trained respect nor fear of the profligate son.

Musichetta snapped a sheet with enough force to send an aurora of dust up into the air. Grantiaire watched it float through the air, settling back into the window seat. His loosened energy was not yet subdued, and his legs swung restlessly as he watched her work. 

“I heard you visited the Enjolras family yesterday.” She said after a moment’s passing.

“Is there a question you mean to ask?” Grantaire inquired with the tone of a whining child. Musichetta quieted him with a look 

“You know I care little for the gossip passed around town,” At that Grantaire laughed, breaking the straight expression of Musichetta as well, “Oh hush, I do not, but I have heard that their son has returned with them.” Grantaire’s lips quirked. He certainly had, and had certainly made himself known. 

“And?” He asked, blinking against the light. “Why does everyone make such great news of this? They made their way here every summer for a time, or so I believe.”

“They did not come last year, nor any of the years you were away. It had been about everyone’s mind that that great old house would stay empty, it was vacant for so long.” Some dust that had taken to flight danced across the light allowed by the window. Grantaire let himself be momentarily mesmerized by the movement, before returning to focus. 

“So what brings them back?” He asked, for if anyone was to know it would be her. 

Musichetta did not often speculate. When she spoke of something, it was often because she either held some information on the subject or sought it out. Grantaire wondered what question he needed to ask to find her knowledge, or if she would be merciful and impart it on him without any games. He eyed her carefully, guessing that the games were a far more likely progression. 

“I could hardly assume to know.” She said, confirming Grantaire’s theory. “Were you familiar with the young Enjolras?” That did seem to be the question most frequently on people’s lips. Grantaire was sorry to disappoint, but he had no more information than the rest of them. 

“Were you not a married woman I would think your questions rather single-minded.” He teased. “You know as well as I that I had little care for what this society offered in my youth. Unless he frequented a similar circuit of pubs, I do not think we had even been in proximity of one another before.” 

“Could your sister have known of him?” Musichetta pressed, not yet finished in her questioning. He scratched the joint of his middle finger absentmindedly, letting his nail catch on the wrinkles there. 

Grantaire did have a sister of several years his senior. They had never had much to do with one another, she was married off and moved away long before Grantaire had come into himself. She never visited, never wrote. Grantaire sometimes wondered if that was a sign of her happiness, or rather the distinct opposite. He knew nothing of her husband’s character, only that he would never think himself suited to the roles of a wife regardless of the man. For her sake, Grantaire hoped she had no similarity to him. 

“Perhaps.” He answered, unable to give any more stable conclusion. It caused some irritability to think of such things, and he let it filter into his tone. “Was the Enjolras family so greatly sociable for me to be constantly criticized for not knowing them?” 

“You know that is not what we mean.” Musichetta admonished, sparing him no glance as she moved on to her work with the pillows. Grantaire supposed beating them with such ferocity would be a reasonable enough release of the frustration he was prone to causing. “Rather the other way about it, hardly anyone knows anything, only many wish to.” 

By this point Grantaire had tired of his position sitting in the window seat, and instead moved to lay back on it. The length was not quite suited to the stretch of Grantaire’s legs, and he was compelled to bend him and place his feet against the wall. He tapped out a small rhythm there, watching as if a pattern would be marked out on the stone. 

“How did you find him?” She said, finally voicing the question Grantaire had anticipated. 

“Entirely disagreeable.” He answered honestly, enjoying Musichetta’s halted progress and her surprise. It was not a common expression from her. “If I were to make great assumptions of his character, I would say he is greatly unaccustomed to having anyone disobey his will, and his anger is easily misplaced.” 

“That was not what I had expected to hear.” Musichetta said. 

“So you did have expectations?” He smirked. “Tell me, spymaster, what is the people’s consensus?” 

“You take word of mouth far too seriously.” She warned. “I felt it was suggested that the return was a less than willing one, it seemed an odd circumstance.”

Grantaire said nothing, because he was in agreement. He did not think someone willingly calling on their parents would have been quite so volatile, and Enjolras had been convinced of his role as a sort of nanny assigned by his father. Grantaire was very much intrigued by the implications, and was somewhat disappointed that Musichetta had no answers at the ready. 

“What has it come to that you have come to me for information.” He said, turning his cheek to the cool stone. “You must take advantage of your resident physician and have your head checked, surely something is amiss!” 

It was one of the town oddities, that the local doctor shared a residence with two servants. It had not held speculation for too long, a doctor’s income was no great thing and Grantaire’s family had more than one property on their land in need of tenants. It was not as if Musichetta was unmarried, she had joined hands with Bossuet just the summer before their relocation, so it was no great scandal to move from the main house and include a lodger to support themselves. 

Grantaire knew, though it was never directly spoken, that their relationship went past such confines. Joly had become a friend to him too, and Grantaire would not begrudge the three any happiness. He had known them for many years, so they could not entirely disguise themselves from him, nor did he think they wished to. He perhaps trusted them better for it. He had known of stranger things in his time in London, but the city offered some liberations that the country did not share, even if it too made them a danger. 

That was no pleasant subject to mediate on, and Grantaire felt his mood shift as his thoughts lingered. There was no freedom in any of it, how optimistic of him to even briefly consider it so. He stood up, closing the window as he did. A bird flew by, distorted by the uneven glass, which Grantaire then reached out to trace with his fingers. 

“I will be in the studio.” He said, no longer in the good humour to continue their conversation. 

“Painting, I should hope.” Grantaire offered no answer, as they both knew it was in search of whatever spirits he had stored there. “I am sorry the meeting with Mr. Enjolras did not go well.” She continued kindly, misunderstanding his reason for melancholy. 

“I never said it had gone poorly.” Grantaire had made it to the door, but he paused to speak. “In fact, I rather intend to make good use of him while he stays here.” He could be entertained, at least, and perhaps his father would even be impressed by the effort. Musichetta frowned. 

“That is rather unkind wording. Perhaps the young gentleman needs a friend, you could offer him that.” Grantaire was dismissive. 

“There is nothing to be gained from holding me as a friend.” Musichetta moved to protest. “I’ll not hear it. I wish you well with your work.”

Grantaire closed the door behind him, cutting off whatever words Musichetta may have had. Enjolras was not the only one with a stubbornness of opinion. Perhaps he was more used to disobedience from others, but within his own mind Grantaire could be entirely unyielding. 

The bottle was where he had left it, concealed under the fabric of his stained painter’s smock. The room was a graveyard of unfinished projects, but Grantaire paid them no mind. It was perhaps too early in the day for him to drink himself into unconsciousness, so he instead sat cross legend on the floor, across from a bust he had once stolen from elsewhere in the house for a referential study. Their position was just out of reach from the pools of light stretching the floor, fractured by the panelling of the tall windows. Grantaire toasted to his marbled companion, knocking back his drink in denunciation of all his troubled thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to start this fic so many times and couldn't get more than three paragraphs in because the characters refused to comply with propriety and what have you. Now have bad manners and social taboos all around. It's not under researched, the characters just said no thanks :/
> 
> Also, J/B/M is probably the only side relationship I'm going to tag. I'm planning on a few others featuring indirectly, but Grantaire doesn't know about them so it feels wrong to say they're established. It'll be in the subtext


	4. Conflict of Character

The stairs greeted him with the groans of aching joints, old bones of a house with none of the care to keep it more comfortable. Grantaire moved down the stairs two at a time, working at the tempo of some tune trapped inside his mind. He faintly hummed it as well, allowing the uneven sound of an energetic dance to guide him. Grantaire made no attempt to inform anyone of his departure. He disappeared often enough, there would be no great cause for alarm. 

It was a bright day, with only the barest hint of breeze pushing the high grasses into movement. The yellowing tips gave them a faint glow, reflecting the late morning sun. Grantaire had chosen, rather than take the lane, to cut through the wooded farmland that stretched between the Enjolras property and his own. It would take the smallest amount of fence-climbing, but for the most part a path marked the way. 

Hemlock caused the yellow and green to give way to white, at least in small amounts, and created variety. Spanning their snowflake-like patterns, making the appearance of suspended doilies reaching up against the mossy wall that Grantaire followed. Or perhaps it was Queen Anne’s Lace, he was not near enough to check for the red splattering on the stem. He picked another wildflower, one he made no effort to identify, to occupy his hands as he walked. 

He still held the little purple buds there when the house came into view, revealed through a lifting curtain of tree branches. His pressing of the petals had made them lightly stain his fingers in retribution. 

It was nearly habit, by this point, to turn his attention to the windows on his approach and wonder if he was at all observed through them. By this angle he viewed the side of the building, which held far less decoration than the front face. It looked more akin to a fortress, rectangular and windowed without much else offered in design. He felt the simplicity was more honest in its purpose.

He did make his way over to the front facade, scaling the stairs and standing at the door. He was greeted, much the same as before, and led into the stifling library. This made his third visit, and he had seen nothing else of the house. He wondered if even the family roamed a greater expanse. 

While his walk through the shade had been of a pleasant temperature, the library was a kiln. The insulated heat made Grantaire’s temples throb, and he chose a seat as close to the window as achievable, praying for a reprieve allowed by some escaping breeze. There was none to be found. 

He stood at the careful opening of the door, finding Enjolras close behind it. He was dressed more finely than Grantaire, who had forsaken a coat, and in all appearances seemed gentlemanly. He was in primarily light colors, white pants and a waistcoat in a faint grey shade. Only his hair was out of fashion, being a longer and nearly femenine style. Grantaire smiled, but was only met with a guarded expression. 

“Why have you returned?” He asked, stepping carefully into the room. It was an entirely different behavior to that of his last visit, 

“I am not in the habit of doing as I am told.” Grantaire responded. He extended a hand. “I do not think I was introduced in my last visit, my name is-”

“I know your name.” Enjolras’s hand did not move from his side, so Grantaire’s slowly retreated. He wondered if he should attempt the pettiness and ask him to prove it. 

“You waste no time on pleasantries. I can admire that.” He said instead, allowing himself to return to a sitting position. 

Enjolras hardly moved beyond the door, but kept his eye on Grantaire as if he were some suspicious character. Grantaire matched his gaze evenly, combatting the stare with an overly innocent smile. It was not his fault, men of such serious countenance were simply so easy to tease. He was ruffling the feathers of a peacock, watching Enjolras’s agitation flicker behind the controlled expression. He wished for it to break again, as what he had glimpsed from behind was far more interesting. 

“The time is given when I think it is worth spending. On you, it would be a waste, as you have already decided to treat me informally.” He looked stiffer than the door he had barely moved past, only with an added sour expression. “And further, I do not trust you, and have no interest in endearing you to me.” Grantaire pressed a hand to his chest in motion of a mortal emotional wound.

“Surely you cannot still resent me for my small farce in our last meeting?” He shook his head. “Where is your sense of good humour?” 

Enjolras was unimpressed by his performance. He remained unmoved in stance and expression, so Grantaire let the joviality fall from his own. It was clear this tactic would be entirely unhelpful, so he was in need of a new one. He sobered his expression, straightening and facing Enjolras. He was sure his changeability would only frustrate Enjolras further, but he simply needed to find what Enjolras best responded to, and hope his true nature did not ruin the act. 

“I have a proposition for you.” He said, beckoning Enjolras over. He hesitated first, before coming and sitting across from him. His position was austere, and somehow in complete conflict of the resplendent surroundings. Grantaire leaned forward to lay out his plan in the gesturing of his hands, still faintly stained from the purple flowers. “I think our fathers would both look favorably on an acquaintance between us two, even if they are entirely mislead in their hopes. We can continue to call on each other, even if it entails sitting in complete silence within the same room, but would serve the purpose of alleviating pressure on us both.”

Grantaire of course had no such interest in pleasing his father, but it was not dishonest to say he would think well of Grantaire’s effort. Unless he instead knew Grantaire enough to be suspicious of his obedience, but he would say nothing either way. Grantaire’s efforts to engage an antisocial young man would look favorably from the outside, what matter was it of his motives. He could seek worse things for his preoccupation. 

“You make a habit of lying, then?” Enjolras asked, causing him to startle slightly. Grantaire could not be sure if he meant to their parents, or if he had been entirely seen through. It caught him momentarily off guard. 

“You do not?” He asked at his recovery. He wondered if any of it had shown on his expression, with Enjolras observing him so directly it would not have been missed. Grantaire suddenly no longer enjoyed the intensity of his direct focus, feeling far too seen for his liking. It forced him to break the eye contact he had before so bravely held, looking to the side in escape. 

“I prefer not to disguise my thoughts. I speak true to what I believe.” Grantaire did not think he imagined a note of triumph there, as if he had won some righteous battle in forcing Grantaire to look away. 

Grantaire decided he was sick of seriousness. At this wrongfooted feeling, he regressed to the state of a cornered animal. He let his lips form a smirk and his tongue an attack, as was his defense when such an emotion was forced onto him. 

“So you are virtuous after all.” He laughed, tongue touching the roof of his mouth so to mufle it. “You condemn drink, you condemn lies. Tell me, was it a pious life of holy abstinence that your parents snatched you from, as their only heir?” 

Enjolras continued to eye him, as if taking his measure as a man from this repeated change in demeanor. Grantaire continued to feel disquieted, and readied another quip so to turn attention back onto Enjolras, as the last one seemed to have failed. Enjolras won the race, speaking first at his first sign of vocalization. 

“You offered sitting in silence, I would take that option.” He said, taking up a book from the side table and finally turning his gaze away.

It was likely he meant to unbalance Grantaire yet again, but he had prepared for this outcome. It was with a minor amount of smugness that he pulled out the small leather sketchbook, as well as the handkerchief he had used to contain the sticks of charcoal. 

Charcoal was an incredible medium. It allowed for a fluidity and flexibility that ink and paint did not. Easily correctable by rubbing the marks away, and bold enough to excuse the lack of detail, it was perfectly suited to quick studies. It also made an audible noise against the paper, so that with each mark he made the man across from him visibly twitched. 

He had speculated that Enjolras was the sort that preferred to divert his entire focus to one thing at a time. There had been hints in his unflinching gaze and how much it had bothered him to have Grantaire attracting his eye as he read. There had been the risk that such a behavior would mean him incapable to distract, but Grantaire knew to never underestimate his own abilities of annoyance. It was important to note that Enjolras had not turned a page since Grantaire’s starting.

“What are you doing?” He eventually asked. Grantaire let that be his triumph. 

“A study.” He answered. “I am in need of something to entertain me. What a cruel host you are, to confine me to this torrid room. If you let me out of it I will swear to silence.” 

“You are free to leave.” Enjolras gave no hint that he was anything but completely serious. Grantaire was unphased. 

“I beg of you, let us take a walk around the grounds. The shade is kinder, and I promise to be no bother.” 

Enjolras could not be immune to the discomfort of the room either, and Grantaire could see his eyes divert to the window behind him. He willed its strength in temptation, waiting to see what Enjolras would choose. 

“Let us then test the strength of your word.” He said, standing. Grantaire’s confidence in this as a victory waned.

He stayed true to his promise, uttering not a word as they walked. Behind the house the grounds took a gentle decline, one that had not been largely evident from both angles Grantaire had arrived at. At the base was a river, though a slow moving one, with a stone bridge reaching over it. The dampness had caused moss to cling to the structure, making it green so to blend in with all the rest. He was rather surprised at how unkept the grounds were, but found them all the more enthralling because of it. There was all the wildness, the freedom that the decorum of the interior lacked, and for the first time since arriving Grantaire felt he could breathe fully. 

Despite it being his residence, Enjolras largely let Grantaire guide them. The open air and free movement seemed to relax his expression, though it held none of the same intrigue that Grantaire was sure his own showed. If anything, he had retreated into his own mind, as he showed complete passivity to all their surroundings. Grantaire supposed that was where his attention had chosen to go. In this instance he would allow it.

The grounds were not something that could easily be explored in a few hours, in fact Grantaire was not sure a lifetime could encapsulate them in detail. His own house was not entirely insignificant, but to keep up that appearance they had needed to let all surrounding space to any willing to settle it. Here the land was hardly untouched, but it seemed scoured by far less hands, leaving that much more to discover. 

“I thank you for showing me out,” Grantaire said, breaking the extended silence. Enjolras seemed to confused by his words to berate him for it. “This path makes it way to my home, should you ever wish to return the favor of calling.” He had in fact guided them to its head. “I will be leaving you now.”

“Feel no obligation to return.” Enjolras said, once again having no appearance of humor. Yet Grantaire did not think it his imagination that Enjolras had somewhat relaxed the sourness of his expression. 

“Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow.” Grantaire said, waving over his shoulder as he departed. Perhaps he had no success in learning anything of Enjolras’s situation, but he could not find it in himself to be displeased with the visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R is kind of a little shit in this au damn. He's at like the pulling pigtails stage I guess


	5. Cendrillon

Grantaire was entirely unsure how he had been convinced into attending this event. It must be his punishment for appearing so sociable with Enjolras, his father was now convinced of his domestication and had committed to testing Grantaire in a public setting. He found the insinuations rather insulting, he would never be so dull as to pass. 

A ball in the next town over was perhaps not so remarkable an event, but in the stifled community of their area it was a momentous occasion. Very few claimed themselves too above the entertainment, and very few were limited as too below. Grantaire had much enjoyed the indiscriminate social atmosphere in his youth, but as he had no friends to attend with, he now found the bustle of people rather lonely. 

Not everyone in the room would know of Grantaire’s reputation, but there were more than enough eyes to plague him. It was likely he would not be introduced to any daughters, or sons even, for fear of their corruption. Even Grantaire did not know the extent to which the rumours reached, but he was sure that they surpassed his abilities. He had drunk himself out of an education and out of good favor, but he was sure they imagined far worse of him. It was truly a miracle that Enjolras Senior had been so oblivious to it, even as a newcomer. Grantaire supposed that was what he deserved for not speaking to any of his staff. 

Grantaire’s father and his wife were well entertained, energetically conversing on one side of the dancefloor. They engaged in a mutual avoidance, they likely with no wish for Grantaire to become subject of conversation, and Grantaire with no wish to converse. Grantaire had seen a demonstration with two repellent magnets once, in attempt to suspend something between them. Grantaire imagined that the force between the two parties was something similar. 

He could leave, in theory, and avoid the gathering in its entirety. He would need to make his own way home, but it was not entirely impossible. If Grantaire was to admit, in truth, it was a rather ridiculous hope that held him there, one that wished Enjolras would make an appearance and share the burden of a curiosity. Grantaire had no shame in being odd, but being so without company was rather unpleasant. 

He had collected eccentricities to him in university, or rather he felt he had been collected by them. Those who spoke too loud or too softly, of strange dress or manner, anything that would earn the side glances of society. It was an irregular community, but Grantaire had treasured its gifts. These were among the many things Grantaire had robbed himself of in returning to the country.

The Enjolras family was seeming a less and less likely appearance as the hours waned on, most of which were spent by Grantaire in the isolation of a back corner, hand mournfully empty of drink. Grantaire supposed their pride would not allow it, or perhaps they simply could not force Enjolras into movement. Grantaire wondered if they had yet discovered the trick of annoying him into agreement, or if that was a skill possessed by him alone. Regardless, it left Grantaire unaccompanied and in isolation, where he settled in expectation to spend the rest of the evening. .

“Would it be terribly improper for me to ask you to dance?” 

Grantaire turned his head to be greeted by the unfamiliar face of a young woman. Given the faint glow of a yellow gown in the candlelight, with paper flowers decorating her hair, she gave all appearances of an angel come to Grantaire’s rescue. Her smile was a dimpled one, slightly exposing her hesitance in asking the question. 

“No more improper than you speaking to me without introduction.” Grantaire returned, surprised that he had been addressed at all, let alone so directly. He stood, to face her better.

“In this you must forgive me, I have no acquaintance to do such introductions.” The woman admitted. She did not look particularly fearful of the ramifications of her actions, and Grantaire was endeared to her ever so slightly because of it. 

“Well, we would not have you condemned to silence.” He said. Who was Grantaire to shame her, particularly when she had livened his evening so greatly? 

“I am glad you agree.” She said, smiling sweetly. “Will you then accompany me?”

Grantaire was beginning to get a good sense of this new companion, and it was a favorable one. He had already found himself beginning to smile, enjoying the even wit in which her responses were discretely laden with. She had the sort of dangerous charm of someone who was entirely unassuming, yet could reach nearly any heights with a gentle smile and clever words. He was thoroughly charmed, and was nearly compelled to agree without question. Yet his senses had not entirely fled

“I am sparing you, I can assure.” He reasoned, sobering. “Dancing with me would only bring scandal to your name.” It was well known that Grantaire had shown no intentions of marrying, to suddenly show favor now would be noticeable. 

“Oh then we surely mustn't.” Her expression was unchanged from a smile, but Grantaire could judge her tone well enough to realize he was being teased. “I am hardly known here, as far as they may think I have no name to ruin. Please indulge me?” 

Clearly she would not be deterred, so Grantaire chose to give in. He bowed wordlessly, extending a hand and watching her smile grow wider. As they walked to the dance floor, he gave a half-hearted search to the location of his father, though did not readily see him. If he was in luck, the number of people would disguise them entirely, but he had no such faith. Grantaire had not intended to cause any scandal tonight, but clearly it was Satan in his cherubim disguise who had found him, tempting in the guise of an angel. 

“So you are a stranger here, and appear with no acquaintance and an interest in dance,” He noted as the music started, “If you are Cinderella I must apologize, for I am no prince.” 

“Not an entirely apt comparison. I have no need of a prince, and it was Toussaint who aided me here rather than magic,” They brought their hands together, turning to touch shoulders, “But if I have snuck out to a ball, I hope you will not betray my secret.” 

“I would not dare.”

Miss Fauchelevant, for that was what she eventually introduced herself as, was not the most practiced partner, but she was certainly an enthused one. She seemed to glow brighter at the merriment around her, and increased Grantaire’s good humour as well. He found himself smiling along with her, in an entirely new temper to what he had spent most of the ball in. 

He was curious to her situation, but she easily evaded all of his attempts at learning it. She was a far more friendly enigma than Enjolras, yet Grantaire did not find himself nearly as dedicated in pursuing it and eventually eased in his interrogation. He was content to let her remain unknown in all the ways that he was not with Enjolras, whom he strove to know in entirety. It was a strange realization, and one Grantaire quickly buried. 

The music ended, as did their movements. They and the fellow dancers all clapped their appraisal to the orchestra, during which Grantaire noticed his father making a direct line for his position. Grantaire leaned close to Cosette, making his voice heard over the nearby noise. 

“I fear the clock is nearing twelve, unless you should wish to be subject to questions we are not prepared to answer.” She followed his gaze, nodding in understanding. “Have you a chaperone? I can escort you home, as the hour is so late.”

“I will fetch her.” The yellow fabric of her dress disappeared into the crowd, and Grantaire too waded in direction of the door. He hoped he had lost his father’s pursuit, who would surely be torn between which of the two to follow. 

Grantaire made it into the open night air, allowing a large inhalation that freed his lungs of any remnants of the sweat soaked scent of the hall. He stepped out of the light of the door, so to escape notice of anyone leaving it. The sky was not clear enough to trace any constellation, so he had to make do with watching the fleeting ones formed by sparks from the various fires about the building. 

He waved Cosette over when he saw her, accompanied with an elderly woman he assumed to be the Toussaint she had mentioned. Cosette was animatedly recounting the music and decor, despite the woman’s fragile reminders that she too had been present. Grantaire smiled at her in their approach. 

“Thank you for accompanying us, my home is not far from here.” 

“It is my honor,” Grantaire returned. The sound of a carriage pulling to a stop on the loose gravel caught his attention, and he was further distracted by who stepped out of it. “Ladies, meet me at the corner just beyond? I have one last order of business to attend to.” 

Grantaire had noticed the long awaited arrival of the Enjolras family, starting with the elder Enjolras stepping from the carriage. He and his wife descended and readily walked towards the glowing maw of the hall, but it was another few moments before Enjolras himself stepped out. He made an imposing figure, despite the necessary awkwardness involved in leaving a carriage, face set in a cold expression and chin held high. If Grantaire were to guess, this was the residual effects of the fiery anger he had been so directly exposed to. 

The space between Enjolras and his parent’s allowed Grantaire to cut in unseen. Enjolras startled slightly at his sudden appearance, having made no note of his approach, eyes darting about as if convinced he had simply materialized there. Grantaire, drunk on giddiness he supposed, had slightly misjudged his distance and Enjolras’s gait, meaning when he leaned forward to speak there was hardly any room to do so.

“In need of an escape?” He asked, only waiting long enough for the smallest hint of a nod before grabbing the wrist of Enjolras’s deep maroon coat and pulling him behind the carriage and in the direction of Cosette. 

“Why are you taking me away from the dance?” Enjolras asked, sharply breaking his hand from Grantaire’s grasp. He continued to follow, though, proving his sense of curiosity was at least somewhere near to Grantaire’s own. “Did you cause some scene?”

“How well you know me.” Grantaire replied, though somewhat unhappily. He had earned such expectation, he supposed, and had framed himself so in his own descriptions. Still, the assumption was no pleasant one to hear. 

“I have no wish to be implicated in whatever mess you have made.” Enjolras snapped, halting in his step. Grantaire did as well, as they had already made their way far enough.

“Oh dear, have I really caused that much trouble?” Cosette asked, now within earshot. 

Grantaire chose to watch Enjolras’s expression as he answered, watching to see how he processed the scene. The train of thought could not be followed from his expression alone, but that did not deter Grantaire’s effort in deciphering it. 

“Of course not, I was merely recruiting my friend to help aid in your protection.” He gestured between them. “Enjolras, this is Miss Fauchelevant and Madame Toussaint.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Enjolras said, bowing. His journey of expression had finally settled on one, making, for the first time in Grantaire’s sights, a smile. 

As it was then revealed, Enjolras was capable of being nearly charming when he so chose. Grantaire certainly would not have believed in had he not witnessed the exchange first hand, but he was pleasant and engaging with the two women in their company. He was in every image a gentleman, and Toussaint seemed particularly taken with him after a few choice compliments.

Yet Grantaire could not help but feel the spectacle was rather dishonest somehow, as if it were almost more like a mimicked behavior than anything created by Enjolras himself. This theory was established by the stiffness that did not leave his shoulders, the flatness behind his pleasant expression, and the somewhat stilted nature of his phrasing. Grantaire supposed he did not have much to compare it with, he was not so familiar with Enjolras to make any accurate study, but if he were to guess he would say Enjolras knew what was expected of him in such conversation, but had no natural affinity to the actual act. 

Eventually Grantaire chose to spare him from the inevitable devolution into awkwardness that he predicted, and made more effort to guide the conversation. Enjolras chose to remain entirely silent now that he was no longer in direct focus. He gave no gesture of gratefulness to Grantaire for his efforts, but he could survive the thankless efforts. Cosette remained a pleasant conversationalist, so it was no burden. It was only after some time in his watchful state that Enjolras spoke up again. 

“There is a familiarity to you that I cannot entirely place,” He said to Cosette. “Have you any relation to Felix Tholomyes? He is a distant cousin of mine that you share some features with.” Grantaire wondered if he imagined the slight change in Cosette’s mood, as her expression remained unchanged. 

“Not to my knowledge.” She replied, before moving the conversation quickly on. 

They said goodbye to the two women just beyond a tall gate, from which point Cosette insisted on their continued safety. Grantaire left them in high spirits, glad to have made a new friend regardless of the consequences that were sure to come on his return. Enjolras did not match his energy, instead walking in tandem without speaking a word. 

The night had continued to cool, the overcast sky perhaps making the suggestion of rain in the near future. It did not seem likely to plague them on their way back, but solidified Grantaire’s disinterest in abandoning the comforts of his family’s carriage on the way home. He traced his hand against the stone of a nearby wall, letting them steal the warmth of his fingertips. The displacement was balanced by Enjolras, who provided a warm presence on his other side. 

“Are you secretly courting that young woman?” He finally asked. Grantaire blinked over to him in confusion.

“No, we have only just met tonight. What gave you that impression?” 

Enjolras did not answer immediately. Grantaire did not think it was for fear of offence, but rather gathering his evidence into a cohesive argument. He had been better suited to the silence, Grantaire thought, as this was far more unstable territory.

“You are matching.” Grantaire looked down, realizing he was indeed in a similar shade of yellow waistcoat to Cosette’s dress. They must have made quite the picture, dancing together. Enjolras raised a second point. “And you had a strong sense of familiarity.”

“I create strong reactions in people,” Grantaire refuted, still struggling to process Enjolras’s interpretation. “Those I meet tend to hold me in great affection, or wish to batter my face in. I have been invited to weddings and sworn vengeance on all within hours of my meeting. May I enquire on which side you fall?” Enjolras did not take his bait, which was to be expected. 

“You deny affections then?” He pushed further. 

“Certainly. I would keep her as a friend, but I have made it my intention not to join anyone in matrimony.” 

That earned him some silence, which made Grantaire uneasy. It was a bold claim for one as young as himself, he knew, but not entirely unheard of. He had an unattractive face, an unfavorable disposition by many accounts, many would consider it an equal swearing off of him by women as he them. Grantaire hoped Enjolras did not read further. 

“I am continuously surprised at the speed by which you reach informality.” Enjolras observed, surprising Grantaire yet again. “That is not something I have done with more than two figures in my life, yet I have seen you twice now take that liberty within one day of conversance.”

“Am I numbered on that list?” Grantaire asked, ignoring the latter half of the unsaid question. Grantaire could not explain his manner, and had no answer to give to it. 

“What?”

“The two figures.” Enjolras did not give much hesitation before answering. 

“No.” 

“If my gestures of friendship were reciprocated you could make it three.” Grantaire said, allowing himself to return to a teasing countenance. “I have friends call me R. You may, if you wish.” 

Enjolras made no acknowledgement either way as they walked. He did not seem to appreciate the gesture, yet he did not entirely sour in expression either. Grantaire wondered at his thoughts, but failed to read them yet again. Grantaire, further unbalanced by his inability to predict reaction, retreated deeper into humour. 

“I will confess, this may be a bad hour by which to count me as a friend, as surely your father will ban me from your house by tomorrow.” He laughed, finally drawing Enjolras’s attention from straight ahead. “He has been so far oblivious to my nature, but I am certain the good people of our town will enlighten him of those exploits. He will report them to you by night’s end.”

He had meant to lighten the mood, but it seemed to have the opposite effect instead. Enjolras stopped, forcing Grantaire to do as well, putting him once again under the complete intensity of his gaze. Grantaire must have revealed some underlying insecurity in the phrasing of his words, for he could think of no other reason for Enjolras’s sudden focus. 

“What if you made the report yourself?” He asked. “I am well aware that often what is said is not what is true.”

So was this Enjolras, then, when not under the influences of anger? Grantaire was not faced with the shouting and vengeful spirit of his first meeting, nor the stubbornly silent one of his second. This Enjolras was unrelenting in a different manner, with unhesitating questions. He gave no concern to the overly-personal impoliteness of them, nor the one sided nature of their exchange. In most cases, Grantaire was certain he would flee from such attention. 

Yet there were reasons he could not. Enjolras had given him an opportunity, a far more favorable one than even his own family. They had rather expected him to only make excuses for himself, yet here Enjolras trusted in the complete honesty of his transmission, despite how near to strangers they were. He would be exposed by the night’s end regardless, he supposed he may as well condemn himself. 

“I studied painting at the Royal Academy.” He began, shivering at a sudden breeze. “I had developed plenty of bad habits before attending, and they perhaps worsened in my independence. I would come to class in a disreputable state, or not at all. I was of no great talent or name, and held no consistent patrons, so they did not find me worthy of excusing the behavior. I was dismissed, and my father insisted I return home rather than stay in London.” He delivered it all as plainly as he could. “I left no bastard child behind, nor did I trick any moral young gentleman into accompanying me. Whatever else you may be told, that was the extent of it.”

It was not, entirely. Grantaire had many other pursuits and unfavorable companions that would certainly spark gossip, but he had been far more careful in those respects. He could endanger himself easily, but he was not so horrible as to cause threat to others in his behavior. Grantaire was self-destructive, but largely benign. It was only his weakness to drink that was not so easily controlled. 

“You insinuate that others of better family standings got away with worse.” Enjolras asked, focusing on the most unrevealing part. Grantaire smiled in disbelief. 

“Come now Enjolras, surely that does not surprise you. You attended a University as well.” 

“And I would wish for accountability in both.” There was an unmistakable hint of righteousness in his tone, and Grantaire had a growing concern that Enjolras was in fact an entirely good man. He was not fully prepared for that reality. “You say that was all there was to it, but certainly not. Why did you drink?”

Grantaire had so far endured it, but finally the questions had pushed too far. If only he had a drink in hand now to save him, but he instead settled for forcing their motion yet again. He did not think Enjolras would accept his silence, so he gave a nonanswer instead. 

“You may as well ask a fish why it swims. It was necessary to survive my environment.” Before Enjolras had the chance to inquire further, he spoke again. “You know, you ask a great many questions, but are not very prone to answering them. Allow me some silence to enjoy the evening.” 

Grantaire was evident in his annoyance, and Enjolras allowed his efforts to rest. There was a dog barking somewhere that filled the silence, and the walls had grown in height so to entirely encase them in darkness for a while. It was after some time spent like this before the location of the ball came back into view, light pouring from the door and windows like molten gold and people making their way about the entrance. Grantaire could spot his father among them, likely awaiting his return. 

“You may continue to call.” Grantaire turned to Enjolras at the sound, undoubtedly with a surprised expression. Enjolras huffed at it, looking as if he was unsure to be frustrated with Grantaire or with himself. “I may not entirely enjoy your presence, but I do find myself lonely here. Regardless of what my father may think by tomorrow, you need not let it limit you.”

“How glad I am to know that I am better than nothing.” Enjolras glared at him, though he did not disagree with his understanding. 

They parted ways at the door, Enjolras into the interior and Grantaire snared by his father and ushered away with questions. He lied freely and inconsistently on Cosette and his acquaintance with her on the ride home, until eventually his father gave up completely. He had answered enough questions that night, and did not have the patience for them from another source. He was near asleep when they reached home, dragging himself up the stairs in an exhausted trudge before collapsing completely on his bed. He did not go into sleep unhappy, though, with fond memories of his recent companions already reorganizing themselves into dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch me continuously interrupting the Enjoltaire agenda so women can speak. Everyone can have a little scandal, as a treat
> 
> Ok so spoiler alert Cosette, Marius, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre will all feature to some extent (they'll similarly get their chapter to shine but will for the most part be background characters) If anyone has opinions on if I should go the Cosette/Marius and C/C route or mix it up and pull a Marius/Courfeyrac, cast your votes now. It'll be vague but its all about the authorial intention, right?


	6. Open Book

Despite Enjolras’s near invitation, Grantaire did not immediately make an effort to see him again. It was perhaps out of fear of how readily he had exposed himself, and how he continuously failed at learning any more of Enjolras’s history, but he felt hesitance for the first time since his interest had started. Grantaire had not expected to have the power in their relationship, so to speak, but neither had he expected to be on the lower end of some unbalance. Enjolras seemed to only need ask, and Grantaire would answer. Grantaire was not an obedient figure, and as his only form of resistance he resolved to stay away.

But he could not forgo visiting indefinitely, either. Enjolras had in some way hooked him, and Grantaire could no longer claim his interest as of entirely superficial entertainment. He was a curious man, certainly, but that was paired with a rather short attention span. It was what had given Grantaire the mediocre talent he had in so many areas, but he seldom stayed dedicated to anything for long. He was not prone to taking in and throwing away people, as his phrasing might imply, but if a friendship and understanding of character could not be formed in a certain amount of time, Grantaire would not waste the effort on it. Those he counted as friends had been fast ones. Enjolras had long since passed his expiration, as unyielding as he was, yet Grantaire still persisted. 

A fortnight passed in which Grantaire resisted the siren’s call of return, which very nearly felt an accomplishment. One not unpleasant conversation did not a friendship make, and he had perhaps made too much of an imposition of himself in the name of boredom. He enjoyed Enjolras’s frustration, his anger even, but he had too long banked on the idea that he would not be flatly refused at the door. Maybe it was best to give him space, or so Grantaire told himself was his reasoning. 

Yet his internal clock only allowed so much break in his new schedule, and did he not last a day more than that set amount. He was certain he had not even intended to make his way there, only that he had gone out for a walk and somehow found himself along the path in Enjolras’s direction. He was held hostage by his legs and their easily formed habits. 

Some of the wildflowers had already gone out of season, marking the passing of time, but it was largely unchanged. They had rain the night before, which had muddied the walk and left the sky low hanging and grey. But it was a bright grey, not so gloomy as it might have been. His path was well illuminated still.

The library too, when he reached it, was of the same unchanged image. Grantaire did not as of yet have a preferred seat, finding them all uncomfortable, so he settled on testing a new option. It placed him rather oddly in the room, his side to the door and back to the windows, but it allowed for a new perspective. The servant that had shown him there made no comment on his show of perusal, vanishing in what he expected was an effort to track down the young master of the house. 

“Enjolras.” He greeted at the arrival of said figure. 

“I have no interest in being sociable today.” Enjolras returned flatly, with no little unpleasantness. It was not quite what Grantaire had predicted, but he was never one to proceed with caution. 

“How blunt, I thought I had been welcomed back.” He responded on impulse. Enjolras gave no response, but Grantaire had already been distracted. He watched closely in the man’s approach, eyes tied to his face all across the room and until he sat near Grantaire. 

There was something off about Enjolras’s appearance. A harrowed, beaten down look he had not seen in him before. He looked nearly ill, or at least as if he had not slept nearly as much as he should. His hair was disheveled, and though he was sure Enjolras had been dressed by other hands who would leave nothing out of place, he had rolled up his sleeves at uneven levels. Grantaire was familiar with the exhaustions of the body and the spirit, and recognized both in his companion.

“Is staying here so hard on you as that?” He asked, before his mind had time to consider if he should dare. Enjolras looked to him with confusion, along with irritation.

“What?” He asked, voice scratching with unpleasantness. 

It would perhaps be safer to leave Enjolras untested, but he was again compelled by his ragged appearance. He let his mind reach to gothic lengths, of poison and plagues of nightmares, but knew a far more sensible answer was available. He only needed to prod further and find it. 

“Enjolras, you look as if death has merely been detained on his way to you.” He was perhaps in some degree motivated by concern. “Are you alright?” 

He was not readily dismissed in his question, Enjolras almost seeming weighed down further at the reminder. Grantaire peered at the redness of his eyes, stark against the pale skin, and wondered if they were remnants of tears or disrupted sleep. Enjolras released a long exhale, though it did not relax him. 

“I am not sick in body, only of being here. I miss my companions, I miss the city and all that I could be doing there.” He said.

At this, Grantaire calmed. He remembered that experience well, the dissonance and pangs of separation. He supposed Enjolras had not found any of the outlets he had, not to say Grantaire had handled it any better, but he had the opportunity to throw himself into the lower local community and recreate his city habits as best he could. It would not have been an easy transition without some network for him to return to. 

“In that respect, we can certainly understand each other.” Grantaire sympathized. He could provide support in this respect, as who was to understand it better than he? 

He attempted to place a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, a gesture of goodwill in a way that was less likely to be misunderstood than the sarcasm of his tone. It was meant to be uncomplicated, but he was startled by Enjolras’s shrugging off of it. He stood, moving entirely out of Grantaire’s reach with a hard look. 

“I would not call our situations similar,” He said, beginning to pace around the room. He looked to be ignoring Grantaire’s presence, but still addressed him. “You were brought home because of your mistakes, I was brought home because of ones made by my parents.”

He had thought Enjolras above such petty references to what he had confided in good faith, but apparently not. Had he given up all good opinion of him, just as those who heard it told from others did? Enjolras was not wrong, only unkind, and Grantaire resented him more for it. They matched each other for annoyance now, which itself was rather dangerous. 

“So you are entirely faultless then?” He said, falling just short of a sneer. Whatever saint Enjolras might believe he was, Grantaire was not so naive as to believe it. 

Enjolras continued to pace in the small area allowed by the room’s clutter, his speed incrementally increased. He was working himself up into something, as if increasing his temperature by exercise actively reheated his anger. He was careful in his annunciation, but he spoke with the energy of a rant. 

“My parents are not cruel intended, but in doing what they think is best for me they have made an entirely selfish choice.” He said, speeding up further. Grantaire wondered if he would resort to hitting something. “I am useless here.” 

Grantaire stopped himself from asking if that was how Enjolras viewed everyone so trapped here, as he certainly knew the answer, and attempted to exercise restraint. It was one of Grantaire’s least honed skills, so he doubted his face was as well controlled, but blissfully his tongue stalled. It was in his best interest to stay reasonable. As uncharacteristic as it was, it was fair payment for the time he had spent lashing out and retreating on his return. 

He picked up some small bauble, a carved wooden owl as he deciphered, in some attempt to ground himself. Tracing its carvings with his thumb had some calming effect, the physical experience distracting him from the escalation of his mind. It was an insignificant thing, in the excess of the room, but it served a monumental effort in Grantaire’s calming. 

“You have entirely sequestered yourself. I am well aware the country is not as diverting as it could be, but if you keep yourself entirely locked away you will only continue to feel so.” Sympathy and reason turned out to be the entirely wrong strategy, as Enjolras now rounded on him with full attention. With the complete view of his face, Grantaire could see that anger had encompassed it. 

“I am not so trivial as to speak of diversions. Do you think of nothing more important?” He snapped, with a broad gesture to emphasize the point. Grantaire’s restraint decided to no longer participate.

“You may certainly enlighten me.” He said, indignant. It was Enjolras’s turn to get a rise out of him, it would seem, rather than the more common reversal. 

“I would not waste the time.” Enjolras could have spat the words at his feet with less disgust. 

There were implications to his harsh dismissal, and Grantaire heard them all. Insinuations of his triviality, his lack of commitment, everything else people suspected of him. It made no difference if Enjolras had said it, others had, and Grantaire could feel the words hanging in the air strongly enough. Enjolras’s stare was a challenge, and one Grantaire would not easily step back from. 

“Here I had thought you did not favor assumptions.” He said, eyes narrowing. The unbalanced nature of their knowledge of each other burned at him. He had only his guesses at Enjolras’s person, with no substantial evidence behind them. He was not nearly as well armed in their argument. 

“And here you are making them.” Enjolras said, seeing through his guess entirely. 

This argument was far too personal for Grantaire to enjoy. He was too sober to revel in his own discomfort, and too tired to successfully direct the topic away. Because of this, he did not readily offer a reply and trapped them both in silence. They spent a moment suspended, tempers flaring high and gazes locked. Grantaire was the first to break, making a retreat as he turned his eyes away. The horn of the little owl in his hand made a sharp indent into his thumb. 

“I am getting the sense that I am an unwanted presence-” He began.

“This is the first I’ve seen you take notice.” Enjolras cut in, ignoring Grantaire’s attempted de-escalation. He avoided eye contact still, treating Enjolras akin to a mad dog.

“Well I am noticing it now, and do not have the energy to find it entertaining.” He said, standing. The movement seemed to startle Enjolras, who took a step back from his challenging position. “I will take my leave.”

He brushed past Enjolras, who made no movement as he did. The furniture of the room created an insufferable maze between he and the door, but he crossed it as quickly as he could manage without breaking into a run and simply bowling over it all. This was the end of his attempts to harass Enjolras into becoming some form of friend, ally, or whatever it was he intended. Their characters had proved too contrary. He would go to town, rather than home, and hopefully drown himself in something not too watered down to make him merry and forgetful. 

“Wait.” A hand grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop, though he was released just as quickly. He turned back to see Enjolras standing behind, having finally been returned to animation, holding the offending hand close to himself. His jaw was set tightly, but his expression had changed. “As you said, I see no one and as a result, you are the sole recipient of my anger. That is no justification, it is entirely misplaced.”

His face was not an apologetic one, rather it looked as if the anger was still entirely present, but it had been beaten back somewhat by force of will. This was not quite an apology, but it was more than Grantaire had expected from a place of anger. He was not so convincingly changeable as Grantaire, but he seemed to be making his best effort, and Grantaire let himself see where it led. 

“Perhaps not entirely misplaced.” Grantaire admitted. Not of this occasion, but he had certainly developed a history. “I rather pride myself as a top rate irritability.” 

“Was that intended to be funny?” Enjolras asked, though Grantaire saw something near to a smile. It lightened their exchange ever so slightly. 

Grantaire did not move back into the room, standing still by the door. He was waiting to see what else Enjolras had to say, he supposed, if he would offer any explanation. Their air was still tense, and Grantaire decided not to be the one to attempt to change it. Enjolras seemed to sense this, moving a few steps back to sit down. Grantaire instead favored leaning against the side of the door, a reversal of their previous heights. 

“Since my arrival I have been kept from sending or receiving any letters.” Enjolras said. “It has been harder to endure than I had expected. After not speaking to anyone for weeks, I had perhaps allowed my emotions to build too greatly.” 

“Nothing stopped you from calling on me in that time, if you were lonely. It should not be on me to be the sole agent of your socializing.” Grantaire said, getting a nod of agreement from Enjolras. 

“While that is true, I will admit it was not you who I wished to speak with.” The recipient of the unsendable letters, Grantaire assumed. Grantaire had not been robbed of the blessing of exchange, as worthless as those felt in comparison to interaction, so he could not entirely understand Enjolras’s ordeal. He hummed thoughtfully. 

“I could post them for you.” Enjolras straightened.

“What?”

“We can post the letters under my name, I’m sure it will only take once for your friends to become accustomed. It is no great ordeal to me.” He said, though not with anywhere near the weight held in Enjolras’s response. He looked hopeful and fearful both, each combatting for a right to take control. The anger had left completely. 

“I can not begin to explain what your offer means to me.” He said almost breathlessly. “I know it is casually said, but it is a gesture of kindness I surely to not deserve after today.” 

Grantaire was made uncomfortable by his unbridled honesty, and the openness of emotion on his face. Enjolras was for the most part guarded, anger being the only emotion he frequently exposed. This was an entirely new look, and Grantaire was unsure how to react to it. He shifted subconsciously, bringing his unoccupied hand up to his hair. It was meant to look a casual gesture, but also somewhat hid his face. 

“Say nothing more on it.” He said, allowing that momentary shield to be his reprieve. “Have you any letters already written? You seem the sort to.”

“I do, but I cannot give them to you.” He dropped his hand again, now to find Enjolras evasive.

“Whyever not?”

“They are of sensitive contents.”

As much as Grantaire’s anger had been on its way to dispersion, it returned fully now. Had he not made a gesture in good faith? Enjolras had seemed too genuine to throw it back in his face so readily. He was so desperate as to become a wreck without this contact, but even at his lowest he would not wish any participation from Grantaire? It was rather offensive, no matter how he looked at it. Sensitive contents? How unsavory did he think Grantaire was, to pocket any money that might be sent, or to spill any secrets said. It would not even have occurred to him to open them, but apparently Enjolras had thought him capable of it.

“So you do not trust me enough to post a letter without reading it. I had not thought your impression of me that severe.”

It was a possibility that Grantaire was so offended because of how well Enjolras seemed to know him. He had exposed himself just the slightest bit, and these were the judgements Enjolras had made. If he was truly a good man, then how did that reflect on Grantaire? He had always known himself to be a sinner, but he had not expected so harsh a condemnation.

“I do not mean it like that.” Enjolras spoke out, piercing Grantaire’s darkening thoughts with his voice, though Grantaire did not entirely trust it. “You have shown me a great kindness, and I would not return it with endangerment.” 

Grantaire peered at Enjolras for this small admittance, anger still remaining under the surface but allowing curiosity to move at the head. It still hardly offered explanation, but it did create a multitude of questions. Enjolras remained silent, as if he had no plans to speak further. Grantaire was forced to prompt him again, refusing to leave it unsaid. 

“Endangerment? Enjolras, what could you possibly be involved with that would bring harm to me?”

Enjolras stood, moving about the room with his hands clasped behind him. Grantaire’s mind ran wild, speculations of gangs, gambling, unpaid debts and the dangers that came with them. He would’ve thought Enjolras far too gentlemanly for such pursuits, but he supposed he had seen worse from those who appeared better. Enjolras was a flawed man, surely, but the worst of Grantaire’s suspicions had been abolished since early in their familiarization. To hear otherwise would be a great shock.

Enjolras stopped in his movement, shoulders squaring and facing Grantaire directly. It was a rather offensive position, and he shrunk slightly for it. There was a significant space between them, Grantaire by the door and Enjolras now before the windows, but it did not feel large enough to escape the expanding presence of an Enjolras preparing himself to speak. 

“I was forced home because my father felt I was a danger to the family in independence. My fellows and I had brought attention to ourselves, enough so that I was on multiple occasions threatened by police and on one pulled down from the platform and arrested. My father got word and intervened, but he would not release from his thoughts the ideas of what might have happened had he not, or rather if I had continued and brought suspicion onto them as sympathizers.” Grantaire was silent a moment, processing limited by his disbelief. 

“You speak vaguely. Do you mean for me to understand you as an attempted insurgent?” 

“I have aided in the organizing of protests, spoken to crowds, and held assemblies. As these pursuits of human rights have been declared against the authority, then I gladly declare myself so.” There was a fierce edge to Enjolras now, not quite anger nor pride. He glowed with a virtue of belief that Grantaire had no understanding of how to attain, as if he himself were Justice come to speak.

“And you believe you are helping, in your participation?” He asked. There had been years of protest, riots, none of which had brought any change to conditions. “I remember what happened in Manchester last year, you would lead them to another massacre?” Enjolras met his eyes evenly. 

“They will rise whether I am there or not. I am wholly insignificant in the need for change, but I would do my best to aid it. No one wishes for death, and that is specifically what we strive against.”

There was no hesitation from him, no sign that he had any doubt that change could not be achieved. Grantaire would not mistake it for hope. No, this was that far greater force, belief. He could read in his marble expression that Enjolras believed with his entire being that a better future could be reached by the efforts of the people, and Grantaire, as exhausted as he was by the world, felt the smallest part of his mind believe with him.

Grantaire had to look away, though he could tell from the corner of his eye that Enjolras did not. It had been many years since Grantaire had felt anything close to optimism, and he somewhat feared the sensation. In belief there was the danger of disappointment, of failure, though of that Enjolras seemed fearless. For a moment Grantaire felt bitter, having the need to dig at his faith and see if that was true entirely or if some doubt lurked far below, but he restrained himself. Grantaire may not believe that anyone could be so strong in their conviction, but he was too stunned by this example to now contest it. 

“I understand now how you judged our situations dissimilar.” He said quietly. Enjolras’s aura of intensity diminished, an archangel descending to the earthly realm and returning to common speech.

“I understand the rescinding of your offer.” He said. It took Grantaire some moments to remember he meant the letters. 

“You misunderstand me, I will still post them.” He said, now facing the floor. He had no wish to see the hope or judgement or whatever other expression might cross Enjorlas’s face. It felt too much to handle. “You can count it as my efforts to activism, history has always preferred those ascribed to some cause to the idle.”

“Would you deliberate this with some seriousness?” Enjolras asked, clearly not fond of his phrasing. He would not know Grantaire had no habit of casually throwing himself behind any cause, so he had to maintain some guise of cynicism.

“Take my offer, Enjolras. I may be no great use to your cause, but I am offering the service that I can.”

Enjolras was silent, and as Grantaire had yet to look he had no idea of the reasons why. The little bird was still in his hand, and he carefully placed it on the nearest table. He wondered if a servant would notice the displacement, or if he had given the little statuette a new perspective on the room, just as he had pursued in his changing seating.

“You have surprised me.” He looked up at the softly spoken words to see a small smile on Enjolras’s face. He did not imagine Enjolras had much taste for his apathy, but clearly his half effort had earned him favor nonetheless. He returned the smile as well as he could, before retreating into deflection.

“At least you are not bored in my company.” He said, allowing his volume to increase and the boisterous persona to return. He tapped the side of his chin twice in quick succession, directly on the small mole that resided there. “I will admit, I now understand the righteousness.”

“I am not righteous.” Enjolras contested, though he seemed to be matching Grantaire’s higher energy to some degree, less distracted by the sudden change than he had been before. 

“You have not had much chance to show it, but you most certainly are.” Enjolras moved to speak but Grantaire silenced him. He was creating a vision in his mind, though one that surely paled in comparison of the real thing. “Shh, I am finally forming a more complete understanding of you. You make great speeches then?”

He could see it, nearly. Enjolras’s anger funneled towards political fervor, his commanding nature and his belief. Surely he would be an easy man to follow, even Grantaire himself would likely find himself drawn into the crowd of onlookers. He wondered if he could ask Enjolras to make a speech for him now, or if it was something that required a wider audience. 

“Combeferre helps to write them, but he insists I am better with a crowd.” Enjolras said, confirming some of Grantaire’s speculation. He continued to think, making as many links of information as he could at this first glimpse into Enjolras’s history. 

“I imagine you are better at speaking to hundreds than you are at carrying a close conversation.” He said, more than asked, thinking of his impoliteness with Grantaire and awkwardness with Cosette. 

“Significantly.” Enjolras agreed. “Courfeyrac holds the social talents, that is often left to him.” Something saddened in his expression. “Sometimes I wonder if I am entirely too dependent on them, I hardly feel a person on my own, they have been by my side so long.”

These names meant very little to Grantaire, he knew not of these figures or their families, but he did remember Enjolras’s statement of only holding two people close enough to address informally. It must be these two fellows, so it was no great wonder how Enjolras had ached at the loss of them. 

“I imagine they miss you sorely as well, a machine as close working as you three sound is surely to suffer on either end of separation.” He said. “Fetch your letters, I can make my way to town and post them before returning home.” 

Enjolras moved with evident eagerness, vanishing past the door nearly as soon as Grantaire said. Grantaire waited, somewhat awkwardly, wondering if he had been meant to follow. It was too late now, as Enjolras had long disappeared into the depths of the house, but he was further unsure on how long it would take. He oscillated between thinking he should sit or stand, and in the end simply stood between the two positions in indecision. He was standing either way, he supposed, so perhaps a decision had been made in his passivity. 

At his return, Enjolras pressed the folded papers into his hands. He also included the address to one Combeferre, the first of the names he had mentioned, and he said he had already enclosed an explanation for their exchange of names in the letter. Grantaire moved to tuck the pages into his waistcoat, but Enjolras caught his hands.

“Thank you, genuinely, Grantaire.” He said, pressing them tightly. Grantaire realized this was the first Enjolras had addressed him by name. It was not R, as he had suggested, but it was a start. Grantaire was inexplicably flustered by its use, and pulled himself free. 

“As I said, think nothing of it.” He said, retreating out the door, though Enjolras closely followed him. He tucked his chin to hide somewhat in his collar upon the donning of his coat, but still looked at Enjolras over it. “We have learned a great deal of each other today, I am glad for it.” 

“As am I.” Enjolras said. “Until we next meet?” Grantaire smiled. 

“Until then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter blocked out much earlier and the dialogue already written, but in light of recent events I couldn't really stomach Grantaire's unfettered cynicism and made some edits. I hope it wasn't too ooc. 
> 
> Provide what you can. Spread the word, donate to bail funds, be thoughtful about what you share and say. This isn't only an American issue, the fight against racial violence and abuse of power has many fronts. Even if its too much to keep up with the news, stay safe and support each other. Not everyone has the privilege to ignore it.


	7. Pride and Portraits

As was the endless sufferings of an artist, there were many times where motivation might strike without inspiration to accompany it. Such moods would have you eagerly grabbing for your materials, or itching for them if they were out of reach, only to find yourself inactive as soon as you had the chance to use them. It was the unsynchronized nature of the body and mind, where they did not entirely meet each other in the effort towards certain pursuits. The gap in between was a space for frustration, or even blankness, a sort of inability to continue leading to a full stop. 

This was how Grantaire found himself. He had woken that morning with restless hands, and as they had not abated in all the time that he had broken fast and lazed about, he had taken himself down to the studio space. It was in his full intention to spend the afternoon painting, but he had reached full preparation only to find his mind uncooperative. He had been left in this inbetween, standing hands on hips in front of an uninspired canvas, with nothing so much as a compositional study taken from his notebooks to provide necessary drive.

The studio was not an unpleasant place to spend idleness, even if it had not been his intention. It was unkept, surely, as the servants had long since forgone organizing it when Grantaire would likely make his way at odd hours of the night or day to entirely rearrange it. It was a slow life he lived here, and Grantaire often manifested that in the near meaningless movements of this room. He often did it intending to create some still life array, or to allow the light to hit something better, but in deeper truth he simply could not stand its unchanging nature. 

At the Academy, there had been constant movement of students. What art was displayed in every room was subject to change, as well as the faces and objects occupying it. He had enjoyed the inconsistency, as it always provided his eyes with new choice of distraction. Grantaire was an observant man, and for his surroundings to remain unchanged was a subtle but effective pain to him. 

This space was a great deal smaller than any of theirs had been, needing only to accommodate him rather than a fully body of studious artists. He had no memory of what purpose this room had served before his repurposing, only an obvious crack in the roof of the wallpaper that his father could not pay to fix had been its reason for being relinquished to him. It was unworthy of being shown to guests, therefore making it perfect for Grantaire. 

He propped a foot up at the base of the easel, tapping it in annoyance. He got a knock in response, one of the many noises this house was prone to making. In his youth, Grantaire had been entirely convinced of the residence of a ghost, specifically the ghost of one of the more frighteningly painted portraits that hung in his mother’s room. He would knock on walls, making out some sort of code that he convinced himself he had received replies by. It had been entirely heartbreaking when, upon meeting one of his uncles on his first visit back from America, Grantaire realized the man in the portrait was alive and well. 

Grantaire was startled from his fond recollection of childhood stupidity at the sound of another knock, this one significantly louder and much closer. He looked around somewhat in confusion, as it had not originated from the door, before a muted voice calling his name guided him to turning around. 

There were two windows, greater than Grantaire in height, that made up the back wall. In between them was a misleading triplicate, which actually took the form of a door that opened up to the outside. Grantaire quickly crossed the space to open this, looking in complete bewilderment as he allowed in the figure that had been trying to get his attention through the glass.

“This was horribly rude of me.” Enjolras said on his entering, already looking as if he thoroughly regretted his actions but it was too late for him to flee them now. He passed Grantaire entirely, who the closed the door behind him. “No one answered the door, yet I could see you through the glass. It seemed like a sensible idea at the time.” 

“I would hardly admonish you, though I admit I was surprised. For a second I had taken you for some sort of ghost.”

“Ghost?” Enjolras asked, rounding back to face him. “Surely you do not- ah.” Enjolras’s face colored slightly. “I see now how far I have overstepped. Surely you look more ghost than I in all your whites.”

He looked down to see what Enjolras meant, realizing only then his state of undress. He had only his shirt, with no coat or waistcoat to cover it. He had no cravat, either, leaving his neck bare and his collar falling open at the start of his chest. To add insult to injury, he wore pants of the cassack style. Comfortable and loose, but rather agonizingly out of fashion. 

“Half a week away and you have developed a sense of humor.” He muttered, though not unhappily. It was clear Enjolras was in much higher spirits than their last meeting, and it had reflected onto the new wit.

Grantaire hardly had a sense of shame when it came to his own presentation, but he was somewhat relieved Enjolras had not reacted poorly. Their last meeting had implied that Enjolras did not naturally keep himself in states of fine dress, only when it was forced upon him by servants, but it was not something Grantaire had been anywhere near confirming. 

“You are here with more letters, I assume?” It was Grantaire’s best guess for why Enjolras would make so sudden appearance. 

“No, well yes, I do have more, but they are not my only reason for being here.” Enjolras replied. Grantaire raised his brows curiously. 

“Oh?”

Enjolras had that expression again, the one Grantaire was learning to fear. It was of his intense earnestness, where Grantaire knew whatever was to follow Enjolras spoke with complete dedication to the meaning. It was intimidatingly unshielded. 

“You have proven yourself a useful ally, and reached out to me continuously despite my unpleasant behavior.” Enjolras said. “Most would have taken that as the message it was and left me alone, but you instead have given me a chance to connect with my friends again. I am grateful.” Grantaire noted that he had not voiced an apology in those exact words, but the sentiment was there. 

“So you have thought to repay the debt by blessing me with your presence? How highly you think of yourself.” The skin around Enjolras’s eyes pinched, but Grantaire was quick to recover it. “Be easy, I was joking. Where is your humour now?” 

“It left at your sad attempts.” His delivery was entirely deadpan, but a small light of near childlike excitement in his own good humour betrayed him. Grantaire decided he quite enjoyed seeing responses other than anger breaking through his often flat expression. 

“Finally I see your bite,” Grantaire said appreciatively. “I had taken you for a stiff.”

“I am around those I don’t know, but I made clear my intentions to become better acquainted, did I not?” 

Grantaire would argue that he most certainly had not, but he was not displeased by the idea. He had certainly noticed a distinctive effort on Enjolras’s part to be an enjoyable presence. Grantaire hoped this was more intimacy than adaptation, and as he did not sense any dishonesty in the behavior he decided to trust it was so. He would not have Enjolras and him get along better nly to realize it was under pretense. 

“So we are friends?” His nervous mind in some way wished to confirm that this friendly gesture wasn’t solely for the purpose of confirming him as a letter route. His mood dampened, realizing that was indeed exactly what it was. There were worse reasons to form a bond, but it sat poorly with him regardless, ruining their lighter interactions. Enjolras tried to answer, but Grantaire provided a response for him, retreating into empty smiles. “No, I would not make you jump so readily to that length. This will be a long courtship, but I will have your blushing acceptance by the end of it, I should hope.”

This response too seemed to fluster Enjolras, perhaps resenting either Grantaire’s entitlement to a positive response or his assigned role as the maiden. Grantaire reveled in the discomfort somewhat, though it equally displeased him. He had ruined the mood for them both, even if only slightly. 

“R, have you-” 

They both looked over at Musichetta’s entry, though she was certainly the more startled of the two parties. Her mouth pressed to a tight line, eyes darting between Grantaire and the unexpected other presence. They landed on Grantaire, widing with significance, before she curtsied and silently stepped back out of the room, holding the door open but obscuring herself. Grantaire understood the cue well enough. 

Enjolras was closer to that side of the room, so Grantaire gave another false smile when he passed. He reached Musichetta’s position, grabbing the door in her stead and poking his head just past it so to converse in the gap. Musichetta looked displeased that he did not entirely leave the room, but settled to a hushed criticism. 

“You received company dressed like that? Grantaire, what would your father think?” 

“I had intended to go up and change before continuing. He will not think on it if he does not know.” 

He wondered if Enjolras would look down on his impulse to lie yet again. If he rocked back on his heel slightly he could have view of both Musichetta and Enjolras, who was doing his best to look like he was occupied by anything that was not listening. Grantaire was certain the sound carried enough for him to have no choice of it. 

“Had I known there were guests about,” Musichetta started with no end, clearly made unhappy by the surprise. Grantaire’s mood softened in concern for her. 

As informal as she was with Grantaire, who counted her as more of a sister than his biological one with how closely they had grown, she did not so easily disobey the social rules where others were involved. It was very likely she was frightened of rebuke, either by this unknown guest or by the masters of the house, should word get passed onto them. 

“There is nothing to worry over.” Grantaire assured. He inclined his head to meet her eyes, letting her see his earnestness. She calmed slightly, though that led to Grantaire’s arm being sharply pinched. 

“You are offering some explanation after this, R. And you will go get dressed.”

“I would not dare disobey.” He said to her before pulling the door open so that they both were visible to Enjolras again. “Enjolras, this is Mrs. Musichetta Lesgle. ‘Chetta, Enjolras. You must excuse me a moment, but she can show you to the sitting room if your wait would be more comfortable there.”

He did not think, after Enjolras’s described involvement in workers rights, that he would look down on Musichetta in any way. Yet, he would admit, this was still on some level of a test. Enjolras bowed in greeting to her, awkward, but not in any way different to his engagement with Cosette. He had passed, both by Grantaire’s measure, and by Musichetta’s, who seemed flattered by his respectful introduction. 

“A pleasure to meet you.” He said. “I have no issue waiting here.” 

Grantaire knew Musichetta had protests to that, but he ushered her out easily enough. Only past the door were their positions reversed, Musichetta eagerly pursuing him. 

“You did not mention he was handsome. And so finely dressed, like a prince.” She said in what Grantaire sincerely hoped was not a loud voice enough to still be heard. 

“Surely I did.” He had not. Such observations were things Grantaire often chose not to voice even to himself. How easily Enjolras charmed the women he met. Was it only his looks, or did his cool air have some unknown effect on them? It only inspired Grantaire to tease. “Your observations are simply comparative, I provide too stark a contrast.” Musichetta did not waste time on an argument. 

“Hurry yourself, it is no good to leave a gentleman like that waiting.” Musichetta dismissed, ushering him further. Grantaire let his feet carry himself quickly up the stairs, though luckily it was not too far a distance. 

He dressed in a green vest with yellow threading that created it’s dotted pattern. It clashed somewhat with the striped shirt beneath, but he had striven for speed, so he would hear no complaint to his haste’s poor taste. It was the black cravat he focused on most heavily, closing up the sides of his shirt and hiding his neck back away from the world. Enjolras, despite his humour, had turned slightly pink at the sight of it. He would not offend his fragile sensibilities in this respect, at least not further than he already had. 

How would Grantaire have reacted, had their positions been reversed? He had seen men in further states of undress before, likely in far more lewd circumstance than Enjolras ever had, so was it in him to feel embarrassed by it? Enjolras was of a fine form, as Musichetta had so plainly stated, perhaps his reaction would not be an adverse one.

The cravat pressed tightly against his throat, Grantaire having had pulled it too sharply on himself. He had no right to such thoughts, even speculatively. Enjolras’s looks were of nothing to note for him. They were not even friends, hardly civil peers. Enjolras was a good man, who was kind to Grantaire now for the service he had offered. He would not make the youthful mistake of taking that as an excuse to let his mind take liberties. 

On his return he found Enjolras moving canvases gently so to look at the images collected in the room. Many would have considered the action rude, but Enjolras seemed unapologetic, looking up at his entry with none of the embarrassment of someone caught doing what they should not. Curiosity, entitlement, both, whatever force it was held Enjolras strongly, and as soon as Grantaire was at his side he began to ask questions as well. 

“Are all of these made by you?” He asked, long fingers tracing the top edge of a canvas, rippling slightly with the small parts of paint that had reached past the front surface.

“To their great misfortune.” Grantaire confirmed, grimacing slightly at one Enjolras brought into view. It was the face of a portrait, but the body and background had been left an incomplete underpainting. 

“So many unfinished?” Enjolras asked. He must have come across many like this already. 

“I do not have the longest of attention spans.” Enjolras looked to him, studious in his surprise. Grantaire shifted, though it was ineffective in evading his look. 

“That is not something I would have guessed of you.” Enjolras said. He did not mention Grantaire’s patience with him again, but he did not need to.

“There are exceptions to the rule.” Grantaire replied, offering no other explanation. He had none to give, only that some fascinations proved an outlier. He loved the sea relentlessly, had long lasting infatuations, and now latched on to difficult cases. 

Enjolras continued to browse, looking closely but providing no clear reaction for Grantaire to give response to. He was let to follow awkwardly in silence. Not even gallery shows had been so painful as this, as there was always someone to be too outspoken in their opinion. Enjolras was a frighteningly neutral observer. 

“I know little of art, but the style seems rather unusual. Darker.” He said finally, pausing at a rather miserably documented scene of a chain gang. It had been horribly received, so it was no surprise that Enjolras too was displeased by it. Enjolras had commented on the style, not the content, so that was what he would respond to. 

“My inspirations lay more strongly in Goya than in Sir Benjamin West. Though of course I am no great genius, so I fall greatly short of both.” Very, very short. Even if he had graduated properly, he did not doubt his impopularity would have plagued any attempt at a career. Enjolras continued to seem thoughtful. 

“I hold no meaning to those names, but certainly you are to take inspiration from yourself? Why would being dissimilar to them matter?” Grantaire was flattered by his confusion. 

“The issue is not of dissimilarity, it is of talent.” He corrected. Still Enjolras did not seem to understand. 

“And how is that measured?”

“Financial success.” Enjolras looked annoyed with his response, but not enough so to build anger over it. 

“I imagine that is the cynic’s view.”

“You said you knew nothing of art, yet you are so ready to contest me on it?” He could tell Enjolras would not relent, so to release them both from the chance of argument he changed the subject. “I have heard from Cosette. She knew my address, but not yours, but she sends greetings to us both.” Grantaire passed over the letter he had brought down with him, allowing Enjolras to read it. He watched the pleased expression reach him with her kind words. “You are very nearly in danger of making more than one friend.” He warned. 

“I would be glad for it.” Enjolras said, earnest yet again. Cosette had sounded resolved to befriending them both, so even had Enjolras disagreed he did not think he would have much choice in the matter. He folded the letter carefully, returning it. “I will admit, I had the strangest suspicion she was wearing a wig when he met, and I am not usually one to notice such things.” 

“It was evident.” Grantaire confirmed, letting himself laugh at it a little. He may know little of her hair color, but he still felt her an enjoyable person. “Let it add to her mystery. I am sure she had led an interesting life.”

“Let us hope not a dangerous one.” 

“I doubt she has more dangerous pursuits than either of ours.” 

Enjolras did not argue with him at that, only inclining his head in admittance. It was a small success for Grantaire, both in that he won the argument and that Enjolras did not ask him to elaborate further. He had spoken foolishly, so it was better to let Enjolras make assumptions from it. 

He noticed, from the movement of Enjolras’s eyes, that he was not in fact observing the room in any close detail. He rather made large sweeps with his attention as to take it all in at once as a single view. Grantaire wondered if such an action made those rooms of high decoration more tolerable, or merely headache inducing with all their distractions. Perhaps Grantaire read too much into the behavior, and Enjolras did not use it frequently. Perhaps he was only politely attempting to show interest, or simply stalling. 

“The servant you introduced me to, Mrs. Lesgle, she called you R.” He said, breaking the silence again. 

“You are full of apt observations today.” Grantaire’s thoughts had not yet moved on from their previous train. 

“You said that was what you gave to friends to call you.” It was clear that Enjolras had some point to this. Maybe these were his attempts to handle a subject delicately. 

“I did, and she is.” Grantaire answered. Enjolras waited a moment. 

“Are you and she of any closer connection?” There it was. At this point Grantaire may well have suspected it. 

“I do not know whether to be shocked that you always suspect me, or that you dare to ask it so plainly.” He said, laughing. Enjolras still waited patiently for an answer, which Grantaire was again compelled to give. He did not bother to ask Enjolras what right he had to know. “She is a married woman, and further I have always looked to her as part of this household in more ways than one.”

Enjolras nodded, very nearly disinterested in the answer. Grantaire supposed it made little difference to him either way, it was merely a satisfying of curiosity. He wondered if everyone was compelled to answer Enjolras so readily, and if he had simply gone through life with an unintentional silver tongue. Grantaire fidgeted, restless in his own wonderings.

“Do I dare ask why you so frequently assume the nature of my relationships?” He asked, fearing the answer though he spoke with an easy tone. 

“It is no condemnation of your character,” Enjolras said, seeming to see through him yet again. “Only wonderings, as certainly someone as sociable as you has many kinds of connections.”

“Of my friends you have met servants and strangers, how is that not the mark of a lonely man?” He asked. This too Enjolras chose not to dispute. Grantaire was left to wonder if the silence was one of solidarity or criticism. 

Their meeting came to a mostly natural close, with Enjolras exchanging his new letters and Grantaire promising to pass on any reply at its soonest arrival. He dreaded Musichetta’s interrogation after Enjolrass departure, but less so than what he would have to endure should Enjolras still be here when his father returned. He knew Musicetta would not betray his misstep, but he had no eagerness to see their stilted socialization regardless. 

He returned to the studio after seeing Enjolras out, though inspiration had still made no move to appearing. He instead walked slowly around the room, following a similar path to Enjolras’s from before. He did not know why he did this, only that it felt a necessary recirculation. If anything, he disturbed the dust enough to change locations in the room. It was not so entertaining as redecoration, but it would have to serve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't have much to say about this one. Wanted them to be nice to each other. Also I wish I had set this near the ocean. I miss writing about the ocean.


	8. How They Drank Like Gods And Fought Like Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for vanishing but I'm back with a fat chapter, a lot of emotions, and a lot more characters

Grantaire would argue that his situation with Enjolras had continued to improve. He was self-conscious, still, that it was only for his role as messenger, but as much as that wounded his pride it still had advantageous results. There were benefits to having a friend he could call on. It was a horribly privileged thing to say, but Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly worked out of necessity, which had impact on when he could enjoy any recreational pursuits with them. There would always be that gap of responsibilities and strife that Grantaire did not share. They lived different lifestyles, they may have chosen to forget class differences in their interactions, but that did not actually destroy their systems. 

He and Enjolras, however, were equally unoccupied. Grantaire had his art, which was theoretically meant to generate some income. There had been a small commission from one of their neighbors, likely out of pity more than anything else, but that had provided a few days work. He was sure Enjolras had to have some pursuit as well, he did not know what he had been studying, or if he attempted to continue his studies at home, but he had yet to see the man idle for any period of time. 

Their speech had in great part returned to the trivial exchanging of pleasantries, by which Grantaire was fairly certain they were both attempting not to cause offense. They acted more as aquaintances now than they had in their early knowledge of each other, where they had followed all the motions of enemies from the first second of their introduction. It felt strange, to have confided so much in each other only to return to never speaking of personal matters, but it was perhaps necessary in the reparations of their relationship. Enjolras had made it clear that he wished to adjust the patterns of their interactions through changing his behavior, so Grantaire was obligated to follow suit. 

They had walked more of the grounds around Enjolras’s home, though Grantaire was still yet to see any other room within its walls. Grataire supposed there were still many things one could learn from walking with someone, even if no information was verbally exchanged. For instance, Enjolras naturally walked rather quickly, and in as straight a line as his terrain permitted. He did not have the gait of a wanderer, like Grantaire, who often swayed in his path, moving slowly yet somehow always managing to collide with the arm of whoever he walked close to, as if to emphasize his nonlinearity. Also, Grantaire’s eyes were prone to unsettling vagrancy, but Enjolras seemed to retreat into his head in movement, as if since there was nothing he could singularly focus on in his changing surroundings it was necessary for him to choose his own mind as a constant. Grantaire often wondered what he would need to achieve for him to be the subject of focus instead, as it sometimes made conversing with him rather difficult. 

In the present, Grantaire had once again taken up residence under that tree he had woken up under those months before. He was on his back, face to the sky while his hands absentmindedly tied grass into little crosses. Enjolras sat with him, fully upright and absorbed in a reply that had arrived from Combeferre. He had persuaded him to at least consume it outside, as he had grown intensely tired of the sitting room and did not enjoy the concept of another hour’s silence sitting within it. Grantaire knew there was no hope to distracting him, and had settled for a sleepy enjoyment of the fading warmth. Enjolras had arrived in late morning, but the day had long since passed into a humid evening. 

“Combeferre has asked after you again, he is curious about the name I have been using to communicate.” Enjolras said. 

“I was unaware he had asked after me in the first place.” Grantaire said. He did not bother to ask if Enjolras had told his friends about him, he did not think he would waste the space for more important matters. 

“I thought I had told you, after the first letter.” He twisted the green blades between his fingers.

“Then I must have dismissed it. You can give him my greetings if you wish, I doubt we would have much to say to one another.” Enjolras did not argue, continuing to read. 

Grantaire was not envious of Enjolras’s friends. They had more in common, and had known each other far longer, it only made sense they held deep affection for each other. If it left Grantaire to sit and wait as the alternative only for when they couldn’t be reached, so be it. He remembered Musichetta’s accusations of his interest in using Enjolras, but here it was their roles had been reversed. It was fair play, he supposed. 

There were sounds of a quiet approach and Grantaire, dreading who they might be, placed an arm over his eyes. It shielded his sight, so he pretended it would protect him from all other sensory experiences as well. He was likely being summoned to dinner, or worse his father had sought him out personally, but either way it was Grantaire’s full intention to ignore it. 

“Ah, is he asleep?” A quiet voice asked. 

Grantaire shot up, startling Enjolras, who had clearly not noticed he had been spoken to, rather badly. He paid no notice or apology, already on his feet and sweeping the delicate figure off of his. The large hug completely enveloped both of their delighted laughter, and they even made some small circles in their embrace. 

“Jehan, Jehan, oh how I’ve missed you.” He said, separating with both hands on his friend’s shoulders. 

“And I you. London is lacking in your absence, my friend.” Jehan said, smiling. Grantaire marveled expressively at the changes in him, how his hair had very nearly reached his shoulders, as well as what about him remained constant as ever. It felt as if eons had passed since they last saw each other, a feeling Grantaire was sure was reciprocated as Jehan put a hand to his cheek. “I apologise for the late hour of my calling, I have only just arrived.” He peered around Grantaire’s arm. “But I see you already have a guest.”

Grantaire had entirely forgotten about Enjolras’s presence, and was now made stiff with the reminder. He released one of his hands from it’s grasp, though the other remained with an equal hold of Jehan’s hand placed gently around his wrist. He pivoted back to Enjolras somewhat awkwardly, overly aware of the dramatic nature of his recent actions. Enjolras had made to stand, now waiting only a few steps away for introduction. He must have finished the letter. 

“Forgive my rudeness.” Grantaire said, feeling uncharacteristically unable to speak. “Enjolras, this is Jean Prouvaire.”

“A schoolmate?” He asked, questioning as ever. 

“No, but we ran in similar circles in London.” He answered. Enjolras would have to forgive the near lie. Jehan’s hand tightened ever so slightly, a reassurance. 

In truth, he had met Jehan in a rather underground manner, so this was as honestly as he could phrase it. It was not uncommon for the molly houses to provide a more social aspect than the other, and he and Jehan had spent more than one occasion in deep conversation before they had ever met outside of that environment. Their shared interests of literature and mythology had been enough to bond them, and Grantaire supposed they had known the most dangerous secrets of each other before they had ever exchanged names. He counted Jehan among his closest friends, and perhaps the only one that truly knew all the facets of his life. Enjolras looked as if he wished to inquire further, so Grantaire hurriedly turned back to Jehan, hoping to effectively silence him with diverted attention. 

“Where are you staying?” He asked of Jehan, ready to offer one of their guest rooms, regardless of parental consultation. He would prepare the room himself, if necessary. 

“I have a place at an inn in town.” Jehan assured. “I was nearly fooled on my first try by rather extortionate rates, but I am fairly settled now.” Despite his friend’s meek manner, Jehan was hardly lacking in intelligence. 

Grantaire looked to the fading sun. Even if Jehan were to stay for dinner, it would not be long before he had to leave for town again. Grantaire would not have it. He had not seen his friend in months, he would not wait another day.

“I would not be parted from you so soon.” He had not yet been able to free him from his grasp, he did not think he could bear separation. It would be better if he followed Jehan to town. “We should celebrate our reunion, if you have the energy for it.”

“I have missed our adventures far too much to refuse one.” Jehan did show some signs of road weariness, though he seemed determined to ignore it. He looked back to Enjolras, hesitant but with kind intent. “Surely you will accompany us?” 

Grantaire too looked to Enjolras, unsure of the nature of his reply. It was not a strange assumption to make for Jehan, believing Grantaire’s companions in the country would be much the same as their city circles. They had spent nearly every night on adventures, or so Jehan had called it. Grantaire certainly took it to greater extremes than his friend, but they had been known to down several drinks and make their way to a graveyard, sloppily quoting sonnets amongst the graves. Jehan was the more creative mind in their exploits, Grantaire often getting too absorbed in that first step. 

“I would not wish to impose on a meeting of friends.” Enjolras said, his face making no clarification to his actual preference. There was a too long beat of silence before Grantaire realized he was meant to reply.

“It would be no imposition. Such things are often more enjoyable in greater numbers.” Enjolras remained indecipherable. 

“If you wish for me to join, I will.” 

“You are welcome to.” Both their answers remained too neutral to come to a clear conclusion, so Grantaire resolved to decide nothing and see what resulted. “Well, we had best be off.” He said, pulling Jehan with him. 

Enjolras did fall into step alongside them, giving the answer they could not express. Grantaire’s nerves increased because of it. He would not be so rude as to tell Enjolras to leave, but he was also unsure how this vision of virtue would react to his evening pursuits. Grantaire was confident how he spent an evening with friends was very different than to how Enjolras enjoyed his time. They had not yet run into this difference in character, and he hoped it would not be a destructive one. He could not help but worry his lip over it, kept to silence of tumultuous thought. 

To Grantaire’s great misfortune, his own discomfort meant all three of them walked in stilted silence. Jehan was often shy around new persons, choosing not to speak unless spoken to and often very quiet even when he did. Enjolras on his other side was victim to a mix of his own stiffness in interaction, as well as his general manner of distracted walking. Without Grantaire as a social conduit, there was nothing to be said between them. 

Grantaire supposed they were not entirely opposed as figures. Jehan had none of the firmness Enjolras possessed, his manner far less stern, but they were thoughtful, their minds turned outward and their moods drastic. Jehan was far more prone to melancholy, like Grantaire, but it had the same sort of ability to encompass his neutral expression when he lost control of the emotion. Perhaps they would get along frighteningly well, should they ever actually choose to speak to one another. 

“Which inn was it that tried to make victim of you?” Grantaire asked, once they were closer to town. He had felt nearly suffocated by the quiet, and it had only made his anxiety increase to irrationality.

“I think there was soldier in the name?” Grantaire knew the one, and it formed part of a very bad plan. He steered their paths in its direction. 

“Should that be our target for tonight?” He voiced energetically, attempting to sweep the other two up in his enthusiasm. Enjolras, of course, was immune. 

“You would seek out an establishment you have already been told is deceitfully run?” Enjolras said, finally proving that he had not fallen mute. 

“They did seem a somewhat unsavory crowd.” Jehan added. They were one step closer to talking to each other, and Grantaire was not sure if he was glad for it. He moved a step ahead, walking backwards so to address them both with a view of confidence. 

“I have been there before, there is little cause for concern, should you watch yourself.” He said. 

That was again a lie, Grantaire had for the most part avoided it save for one or two occasions. There was not much choice in their town, but even amongst those this place did not rank highly. His assessment was only a general one, drawn from varied experience rather than specificity. If Grantaire judged correctly, the sight of it would be enough to scare Enjolras off. Grantaire would expose himself no further than what had already been revealed outside his control. 

But Enjolras only fell back to silence, apparently making the horrible decision to trust Grantaire without argument. He truly wished this was not the occasion Enjolras chose to try such a tactic. Perhaps he only wished to avoid being contrary in front of Grantaire’s friend. It was a consideration that was unnecessary, as well as somewhat unwanted. Grantaire wished to damn it and Enjolras’s bravery too. 

The place came into view, already illuminated and chaotic in the low light of evening. Enjolras did not falter in his step, instead looking bolder as if he were a soldier heading into battle. He looked far more noble than the soldier carved into the hanging sign, the artist, though generally unskilled, should have found a better muse. They could hear its noise long before they were close, truly exposing its patrons as a boisterous crowd. There was a man retching just past the doorway, which Grantaire felt a fair advertisement for the environment. 

“I look the least gentleman among us, let me ensure our seating.” He said, not completely forgoing his wits though his choice of location would seem to indicate it. “Hold on to anything valuable on your person.” 

It was a lucky thing that just past the throng at the door things spaced out more nicely. It was only a short period of overt discomfort before he was beyond the initial crowd, finding an unoccupied corner table far from its overpopulation. He laid claim to it, gesturing with a wave to Enjolras who was tall enough to see him from the other end of the crowd. He and Jehan brought themselves over, joining him. Jehan on his side, Enjolras on the other. The wood was rough, and somewhat uncomfortable. Grantaire was certain he got a splinter just from moving to accommodate Jehan.

The people had given Grantaire hardly any notice, the most perhaps being one or two recognizing him from other establishments. He often had that skill of invisibility, particularly in places such as this. Even his nicer dress often failed to distinguish him. He was certain it had something to do with his face, as if people were naturally inclined to look away from it and purge the contents from their mind. He mostly entertained the thought with humour, but it was a so far undismissable theory.

His companions, however, were not so lucky. Jehan, with his unfashionable style and odd choice of colors, never blended easily into a crowd. Enjolras, too, was not the sort of figure one looked away from, unless it was with the sort of experience of being blinded by the sun. From across a room his pale hair shone brightly enough to attract eyes, and he had little trouble making a clear way through the crowd. Grantaire grew uneasy with the attention they drew, foolishly hoping it would dissipate as they sat down. 

“This one’s brought some gentleman of the backdoor with him, somebody better find the law.” A man near them laughed. Grantaire tensed, as he was sure Jehan did too. 

They both recognized the term well enough, and he was sure even Enjolras would understand the inference. He did not look to see Enjolras’s reaction, too preoccupied with his own. His heartbeat quickened, near to panic with fear that the drunken observer would follow through on his word. There was no current evidence against them, but he had seen men taken in for less. In the city they could leave and be unknown to the man speaking within hours, but a small town made that impossible. 

Jehan pressed close to his side, equally nervous. As Grantaire had mentioned, Jehan drew attention, so this was hardly the first time an accusation had been thrown the poets way in Grantaire’s presence. It was not untrue, either, He, in the spaces that allowed it, had always been indiscriminate in choosing between women and men’s clothing. That, as well as their other inclinations, held the threat of a death sentence. If not from the law, then often by the actions of particularly vile private citizens. Grantaire prayed this man was not so prone, as they had surely just walked into a wasp’s nest.

“Be free to, Claquesous. When they arrive I have some reports of my own to make.” A young woman said, having appeared at their side to loudly place a bottle down. The man was effectively silenced, and their attention was turned rather nervously to her. 

“I don’t believe we ordered this.” Grantaire said. He would not make his first step be consuming the wrong person’s drink. 

“All’s the pity, it’s what we’ve got.” She replied, leaving just as quickly. Grantaire supposed it was for them, then, though the young woman had been unspecific. 

Despite the man’s diversion, Jehan didn’t settle. He could not read Enjolras well enough to tell his feelings, as it had been he and Jehan titled so, but he imagined he held discomfort for many reasons. This panic had been enough to cut through his other irrationality, and he looked to his companions ruefully. 

“I have made a misjudgement. I apologize to you both.” He said. Certainly this had ruined the mood of the evening, and it would be better for them to disperse now. 

“No need for apology.” Jehan took the bottle, taking a swig as a show of confidence before his expression soured and he placed it carefully back down. “We have made better of worse.”

Jehan had a specific tone of conviction, one where his volume raised and his voice deepened ever so slightly. It was not often heard, but Grantaire knew when it was he would not broker argument. Jehan had decided the night would not end here, so who was Grantaire to argue with him. As far as they could see, the man had made to attempt to leave and follow through, it was likely in their best interest to be unbothered.

A commotion, more organized than the rest, brought the men’s attention to the center of the room. Furniture was being rapidly cleared, while two shirtless men faced off of one another in the middle of a quickly forming circle. Grantaire grinned, realizing the familiar scene of a boxing ring being formed. While the legality of the sport was a fragile one, Grantaire had seen it in far less disreputable places as this. He once again formulated a plan. 

“Are they going to fight?” Enjolras asked for the first time sounding openly concerned. 

“They are going to offer us an opportunity.” Grantaire answered. “How many?”

“Two.” Jehan answered. 

“Two?”

“Enough time to judge your opponent, but not so long as to seem overconfident as a final contestant.” He reasoned. Grantaire nodded with understanding, though Enjolras only seemed increasingly confused. 

“I am not following.” He said, easily admitting to it. 

“Allow me to surprise you.” Grantaire offered mysteriously, eyes intent on following as the first punch was thrown. Enjolras was certainly going to learn more of him tonight, he only hoped it wasn’t unfavorable. 

After the first round, he left the table and moved to stand in the surrounding circle without a word. He had not yet explained it, but he was certain by this point Enjolras had understood his intention. Grantaire had wondered if Enjolras would protest it, but because of Jehan’s lack of concern it seemed he held himself back. Or perhaps his curiosity had simply taken hold. Grantaire shook the thoughts from his head, resolving to be undistracted. At the sign of the second competitor fading, he untied his cravat. 

“Who dares to be the next challenger?” The innkeeper shouted loudly at the group. 

He seemed an entirely unsavory character, but that was not to Grantaire’s concern. If he were to fight this man, he would worry about fair play and the risk of an unsuspecting knife in the stomach, but he had no place in the ring past instigation, so he did not worry over it. Grantaire raised his hand, waving the red cravat like a flag.

“I will try it.” He said. The innkeeper looked him over, beady and analytic eyes observing him closely, before concluding he was an interesting enough investment. He ushered Grantaire in, though Grantaire avoided the shoulder pats of appreciation, calling for bets to be made as he did his best to agitate the crowd to excitement. 

Grantaire discarded his waistcoat, tossing it back to Jehan who caught it easily, before rolling up his sleeves before moving to face his opponent across the circle. The man was bigger than him, in height and muscle, but he did not seem cocky in his victory over Grantaire. He instead observed him with equal carefulness, wondering what had motivated Grantaire to enter the ring. Grantaire appreciated the suspicion, as they both knew he was the more unpredictable element in this fight. 

At the start, neither of them made the first move, only watching and waiting. The spectators encouraged them to, nearly to the point of reaching forward and batting at them. Grantaire watched their pressure wear down his opponent, his eyes shifting and their impatience bleeding into his stance. When the first strike came it was easily dodged, leaving opening for Grantaire to land a quick hit on the man’s abdomen. 

Despite his nature in most other things, Grantaire did not think a great deal while fighting. He would not be so cliche as to call it a dance, as that involved pre-established steps. This was far more instinctual, he moved as he felt, and with what he felt from his opponent. It was not the type of fighting that people did on the battlefield, there was no senselessness to it, no loss of life. Here they played off a crowd, and off each other, and in the end they would all part without much more consequence to it than that.

Grantaire, he would readily admit, was more skilled at this connection in theory than in practice. He was still capable of being surprised, as he was then after a hit to his nose temporarily blinded him. He ducked, knowing that another punch was soon to follow, but without his sight misjudged it and still took a hit just above his temple. He landed one more on his opponent’s jaw before hitting the floor with a unpleasantly loud noise of collision. The blow that sent him there had been too fast for him to even register. 

The circle of people around them cheered at Grantaire’s defeat, but he was not made bitter by it. He had given a better fight than the last two opponents, and his companion offered a hand to help him stand. He took it, then making his way back to the table with pats on the back and general well reception. 

He was handed a handkerchief, which he was somewhat surprised to find had come from Enjolras and not Jehan, and he apologized for its ruin before pressing it to his bleeding nose. His injuries were not severe, and his nose had suffered far worse, but it still stung slightly. He tied his cravat back on, though his collar would likely match it in color soon. He did not yet put on his waistcoat, as the back of his shoulders still hurt too greatly for that. 

“I am out of practice.” He said, allowing himself to act the sore loser among friends. 

“You did well.” Jehan said, ever the supportive voice. Grantaire gave a bloody grin, at which Jehan slightly grimaced. 

“You smiled all throughout it.” Enjolras observed, hardly loud enough to hear. Grantaire had, for the most part since his return, avoided looking at Enjolras. When he spoke his eyes went to him momentarily, before quickly fleeing again. 

“I enjoy sparring, both verbally and physically.” He said. Grantaire had not realized he had done any sort of thing. Perhaps that was why many opponents tended to find him so frustrating. 

“To lose with a smile is an admirable thing, I think.” Jehan said. 

The young woman again seemed to appear from nowhere with a drink Grantaire had not ordered. He somewhat admired her unapologetic displeasure at her environment. Equally he would not usually complain when a drink appeared in front of him, even if he was expected to pay, but he still looked to her in confusion. She gestured to a group of people not far to the side, who raised their glasses to Grantaire. 

“Many thanks for letting us win our bets!” They said. Grantaire laughed with them, toasting with his new drink from afar. Grantaire quite enjoyed a drunk’s honesty, as he was often one to supply it. 

His nose had stopped its bleeding, but the handkerchief was surely beyond salvaging. Now a darker red than even his cravat, it would certainly soon turn brown and brittle. He was left unsure what to do with it, eventually resolving to crumple it within his fist to conceal the unpleasant sight. Jehan took out his own, wetting it with the most certainly watered wine and using that as best he could to clear the remnant stains from Grantaire’s face. Grantaire always appreciated such indulgent pamperings. 

He pressed at his face gingerly, sure that it and his knuckles were sure to bruise rather horrifically. It was likely his father would not allow him to leave on any formal circumstance for at least a few days, but that would hardly stop him from making his way into town. It was only likely that Enjolras would be turned away from any visit to him in the near future, if that was desired.

“You have seen me in my element,” Grantaire said to him. “But I have yet to see you in yours.” Once again their exchange of information seemed rather one sided. Jehan looked between them curiously. 

“And what might that be?” He inquired. Enjolras looked hesitant but Grantaire, resigned, merely said, 

“Jehan is a sympathetic ear.” 

With that, he lost them both. Enjolras started with plain deliverance, but soon they were energetically discussing things Grantaire could not begin to bring himself to follow. It seemed he was right, in that they would get along. Enjolras seemed happy to find someone in agreement with him, eyes alert but not unhappy. Of course the most Enjolras had voluntarily spoken would be on a subject Grantaire had no care for, so he diverted his attention back to the boxing.

His opponent did come out the victor, winning one easy fight with an overconfident and unskilled challenger, and another more difficult one where the edge of his stamina began to fray. Grantaire admired his endurance, and while he finished needing to be somewhat supported by a friend, it was also done with a happily triumphant expression. 

Grantaire was surprised when, after half a moments rest, both figures made their way to him. Their arrival interrupted Jehan and Enjolras as well with the sudden shadows cast over their tables. The expressions from them were friendly, so Grantaire was unconcerned.

“I’m in the habit of buying the best fight of the night a drink,” The man said. 

“So you’ll be needing the table for you at that farmhand from earlier?” The man grinned.

“I had a good feeling about you. Bahorel.” He extended a hand, which Grantaire took. Bahorel seemed to take no issue that he had remained sitting.

“Grantaire.” He returned. “Who’s your friend, he make a good fighter too?”

“When I have a mind to.” The men replied, the smallest hint of a challenge. “Feuilly.” 

His accent was unmistakable, readily signifying which side of the border he had been born on. Grantaire would not have expected to find a Scotsman here of all places, and he noted his companion’s surprise as well. Bahorel looked ready to fight again should it be necessary, the national antagonism hardly resolved as much as many would pretend in most places, but luckily Jehan had been eased with drink and good company, and spoke with the heart of a poet.

“I have always dreamed of seeing Scotland,” He said wistfully, as if already envisioning himself there. “I imagine it as a wild and beautiful place.” 

“The lands made wild are where folk were driven from,” Feuily said firmly, but he did seem to soften with memories. “She makes for fine views, I will give you that.” Grantaire, sensing the passing of tension, extended a bottle.

“I know you offered a drink, but I am much fonder of sharing one. Care to join us?” 

Their two new companions were interesting ones. Bahorel was the exact sort of fast connection that Grantaire favored, banter over Grantaire’s loss quickly turning into near brotherly affection. Jehan and Enjorlas both were fascinated with Feuilly, though for different reasons. Enjolras had much to ask on the political environment, and what had brought Feuilly so far South, (it was, as he revealed in proof of Enjolras’s confessionary power, because of the little opportunity the highlands offered him, and that he had met Bahorel and began travelling with him) where Jehan inquired after what he had seen in his travels. Feuilly seemed made hesitant by his attentions, answering Enjolras as if he was compelled but avoiding Jehan’s intrusions, so Jehan soon chose Bahorel as a target instead, somehow convincing Grantaire to switch seats.

As Enjolras had moved earlier to speak closely with Jehan, switching left them across from each other once again. He was engrossed in conversation with Feuilly, and Grantaire was glad to see him so engaged this evening, but it left him as the odd number once again. Bahorel and Feuilly both had strong stomachs, which meant that Grantaire could keep up with them but Jehan had long since begun to slur in his speech. Grantaire then occupied himself in stealthily switching his emptied glasses with Jehan’s when he wasn’t looking, so to moderate his friend where he was not. Enjolras had only had one glass in Grantaire’s seeing, but his cheeks had flushed with it regardless. 

Movement caught Grantaire’s eye, of Jehan placing an overly familiar hand on Bahorel’s arm. Bahorel glanced down, clearly taking notice of it but unreadable in his reaction, and Grantaire nervously called his friend’s name. Jehan turned back to him, releasing Bahorel, and Grantaire took the ready opportunity to trap both of his hands under one of his on the table. In what he prayed looked like a natural movement, he ducked close to Jehan’s ear.

“Remember where we are.” He said, though Jehan’s eyes seemed far too distant to properly head him. Grantaire turned back to the group as a whole. “I think it time for my friend to retire, we shall retreat with him.”

He turned to find Enjolras watching him closely. Grantaire shrunk from his look, breaking eye contact as soon as it happened. Tonight had been one of too many risks, and he did not know if Enjorlas had seen the entire exchange. He and Jehan were consistently physical in their affection, so perhaps he would not question it. 

“Depending on work, we may be here a few weeks. Do come and find us again.” Bahorel said, getting up so that Grantaire and Jehan had room to leave. He seemed genuine in his words, and Grantaire promised that they would. 

Jehan took both Grantaire and Enjolras’s arms as support after leaving the inn, locking them together as his scaffolding. Enjorlas did not protest the overly familiar gesture, perhaps he too drunk enough not to mind it. Grantaire himself was hardly the most sober, and when Jehan began humming, he gladly joined in. It wasn’t long before they both broke out into loud lyricism.

“Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine, a noble meal bespoke us; And for the guests that were to dine, brought Comus, Love, and Jocus...” They chanted with all the finery of drunken music. 

It was a poet’s choice of drinking song, pretentious as it was bawdy, with enough classical references to muddy the mouth of any lover of the modern age. It was not entirely uncommon, though definitely favored more among those of high education and unfavorably creative habits. It was a personal favorite of Grantaire’s, which was likely why Jehan had chosen it. 

“Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung, by reckoning his deceits; And Cupid mock'd his stammering tongue, with all his staggering gaits...” 

It seemed they had chosen the rather extended version of the song, Jehan instead taking it as poetic recital. As there was no repeating chorus to copy, and Enjolras did not seem to know the song, he was rather helplessly dragged along. Grantaire reached over Jehan’s head to ruffle Enjolras’s hair, a gesture he in greater soberness would not attempt, but it was received with a closed-eyed smile. His hand lingered for perhaps a second too long.

Jehan unintentionally did not allow him to dwell any further and repeat his own mistake, head jostling Grantaire’s hand from its position and entreating him back into song as soon as his voice had dropped off. He used it as an easy distraction, continuing the final verse as “But part in time, whoever hear, this our instructive song; For though such friendships may be dear, they can't continue long.” The final tremors of their exceedingly loud voice brought them to where they were to deposit Jehan, ending their drunken pursuits just as the song said.

Jehan swept him up in a hug at their parting with mumbles of Grantaire’s skill and importance. While Jehan could be brutally honest when the time called for it, even if it was always done with a kind smile, he was an overwhelmingly supportive drunk. It took some effort to detach him, as Grantaire was also not entirely willing, but the hour was late and his friend was near to sleep. He was deposited in his room, already fast asleep as the door closed. Grantaire was then left alone with Enjolras, though they maintained a Jehan-sized gap between them. 

The walk, the cool air, and the time since their last drink started to slowly sober the two as they made their way back. It would not be long before they parted ways, but they resided in the same general direction for some distance. Grantaire would stick to the roads tonight, as he had no wish to appear a vagabond and be chased by some farmer and his dogs at the late hour. 

“You and Mr. Prouvaire are very close.” Enjolras observed. 

Grantaire had felt the words coming, as Enjolras had turned to look at them some seconds before as they walked. It was not quite a question, but a near one. Grantaire was made nervous by it, thinking of what the man had said in the start of the evening, and Jehan’s loosened actions at the end. If anything it was a shock it had not been Grantaire to misstep, but he supposed Jehan had long been a city soul, he did not quite have the same trained paranoia.

“You take such an interest in the nature of my relationships.” Grantaire said hotly, hoping to divert focus onto Enjolras instead, to embarrass him as distraction. 

“Perhaps it is so I can better understand our own.” Enjolras thoughtfully replied, unreactive to Grantaire’s attempts at flustering him. 

He was so frequently surprised by Enjolras’s unhesitating candor. It was not the same as Grantaire, who purposefully spoke what people often chose to leave unsaid, as Enjolras often spoke from his own heart. He was so guarded in his trust, but in his words he held complete faith. Grantaire wondered if that extended to himself entirely, for him to speak his own truth so confidently. It was Grantaire who was left unbalanced. 

“That was not what I expected you to say.” He admitted. 

“I don’t think I had expected it either.” Enjolras said, looking down briefly before facing Grantaire again. “My mouth seems ahead of my mind tonight.”

“That is the effect of the drink.” Enjolras was not familiar with his own responses then. Perhaps he had simply felt pressured to join in. Grantaire glanced to him from the side of his eye before looking away again. He had been such an unapologetic observer before, yet tonight he could not seem to meet his gaze. “Did you enjoy coming out with us? It seemed you were rather taken with Jehan and that other fellow, Feuilly.” 

“Had I the chance, I would have liked to have spoken with Mr. Bahorel more too.” Enjolras said in a surprising show of social initiative. He looked pleased, so Grantaire did not think he regretted it. 

“They have not left yet, in a town of this size they could easily be found again.” He gave Enjolras a smile. “We have found you friends here after all.”

Grantaire did not speak out of jealousy, truly. He could be a selfish man in many ways, but he had to wish to keep Enjolras to himself. He felt he had incidentally proven that, now twice using himself as a connection to others. The only discomfort he held with it was that he would not reach the same level of favorability as they. It was his own fault, for his beliefs, but they were not something he could easily change. Grantaire could shape himself to please, but he was far more prone to the opposite. 

Enjolras perhaps read something in his tone, or saw through him as he so eerily could sometimes, as his scrutiny of Grantaire increased. Grantaire was not looking at him, but he could feel it. 

“What cause have you to say that?” Grantaire shrugged at his questioning, thinking it obvious.

“You spoke the night away.”

“Of politics, yes.” Enjolras agreed. “But what did they learn of me, or I of them?”

“You admitted to them as much as I know of you.” He said. And it had been a much accelerated process too. Enjolras shook his head. 

“Hardly. I may well have been in an assembly. That is how I speak with groups on subjects of importance, how I present myself in meetings. I will admit it is much superior to my skills in small talk, but it is still impersonal.” 

Grantaire supposed Enjolras’s expression had been even; Marble without the fractures of anger, frustration or humour that Grantaire so often saw exposed. He had thought it simply interest, unintentional neutrality, rather than Enjolras removing himself from the conversation, and he would certainly not have suspected Enjolras exposing his fierceness to him as a sign of intimacy. He would not have thought Enjolras to consider those facets separate, or to be preoccupied with his own facade. 

“So those who see your speeches, attend your meetings, you would consider them unknown to you, and you to them?” He asked. As he had yet to see Enjolras in this form, he could not make his own judgement. 

“No, I-” Enjolras seemed truly uncollected in his thoughts. “They are very dear to me, but I so often feel that they view me as distant, or above them in some way.” Grantaire supposed this was an ill-opportune moment to declare similar sentiments. “They see my passion in speeches, or conviction, whatever it is that compels them to follow me, but I often wonder if they see anything beyond it.” Grantaire wondered if Enjolras suffered the ordeals of a pretty face. It was a pain very alien to him. 

“I imagine that frustrates you.” The republic did not have the vocabulary for supreme leaders, after all. Enjolras was an insecure drunk, and feared being unseen, of all things. It was far from Grantaire’s anticipations, and he was not prepared to offer much comfort. “Knowing someone is not all there is.” He attempted as assurance.

“Is it not?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire very much hoped he would not begin to sound desperate. 

“Every person you meet will have some secrets you never reach, some parts they leave hidden, intentionally or not. You can form bonds knowing nothing at all of each other.” Grantaire had many, though he could likely not explain them, if asked. 

“On what grounds are those bonds formed?” Enjolras pressed, indefatigable. Of course he would ask.

“I don’t know!” Grantaire pressed his forehead. He had thought Enjolras’s loneliness was a recent affliction, how was he meant to treat the deeper issue unsuspectingly? He hadn’t entirely figured it out for himself. “Would you say that you know me?”

It was a dangerous question, and not one Grantaire wanted Enjolras to answer with affirmations. As he said to Enjolras, he did not think that possible, nor would he even know what that meant. Enjolras hesitated, processing his answer for the first time in the conversation, it seemed. 

“I don’t know.” He mimicked, though likely unintentionally. It provided little opening for Grantaire to reply. Enjolras’s hair had become somewhat of a wild mane since Grantaire’s dishevelment of it, providing him a thicket to hide himself in. Grantaire had no such shield, so he retreated in words instead.

“Look, it is late, and we make little sense, so let us rest it at this. I swear to view you on the same level as I, if you are willing to sink to it.” Enjolras did not take up his joviality. 

“I will hold you to that.” He said in full seriousness. Grantaire said nothing else, as they walked, and Enjolras asked nothing more of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was probably the longest gap between chapter posting I've had so far.
> 
> I could've left Feuilly Polish, but this was a manifestation of how badly I wanted to set a fic in Scotland before research betrayed me. I can read Scots passably well, but don't really use it in conversation, so I made the call not to test that on you guys. 
> 
> Is this Bahorel/Feuilly content? Past Grantaire/Jehan content? Jehan/Bahorel content? General flirting? I don't know, its some vibes that's all I can say. Also, I may not like it, but it is kinda canon that a lot of the amis would die for enj in a heartbeat, but still thought of him as a solitary and separate figure from them


	9. Falling Leaves

The weather that morning was dreary, as it so often was. The pressure of the overcast clouds weighed on Grantaire’s head, pricking pain behind his eyes and pinching the skin at their corners. He would admit the experience was in some part due to he and Jehan’s celebrations the night before. His friend had needed an early departure, so they had celebrated as closely to it as they could. It was not unbearable, but did provide a minor discomfort. He drank to combat it, leaving him with two options for the day: melancholy or excessive energy.

Energy, it seemed, was what his body decided on. He spent several hours fidgeting restlessly at his windowsill, too agitated to focus on any one thing and too alert to enjoy that. He was overwhelmed with the desire to be spontaneous, but caught in that he had little opportunity to be so. He could go into town, drink with Feuilly and Bahorel, or go to Enjolras’s and sit and speak. Neither option had quite the vigorous nature of what he sought. 

His impatience, and his inebriation, resulted in only the weakest semblance of a plan. He sent a message off with instructions, a time, and a place, expecting nothing to result from it. He himself waited as long as it took to finish his bottle before dressing himself and making his way down stairs. It was an effort of stealth, surely, as his riding clothes were likely to be an unfortunate giveaway. 

Grantaire lived in the vicinity of two horses, but was not permitted to use either. One did not fully belong to his family, even though they stabled it, and was used to till the nearby fields. The other his father had reserved for the sole use of the carriage. He made a trip by it nearly every afternoon, so it was most certainly not meant to be available to Grantaire. As with many of his father’s wishes, that seldom stopped him.

The horse’s name was something unremarkable, Philip, Hugh or something blandly anthropomorphic. Grantaire had long since resolved to calling him Koalemos instead, as he found the god of stupidity better than the role of any patron saint in representing him. As Grantaire discretely saddled him, Koalemos looked passively on. Grantaire had often heard how a soul could be seen through the eyes. If that was true, this beast belonged to the devil already. There was certainly no activity to be found in them.

Grantaire sneezed, the airborne elements of the stable disrupting his actions. He pulled the horse along, glad to be free of the building soon. While this structure had been the sight of some of his youthful exploration, he still had no great fondness for the place. The smell of dung and vaguely damp hay could only be so endearing. 

He had truly picked a poor day for this venture, already chilled just as he mounted in the still air. His coat provided what protection it could, but Grantaire wished for speed, and it would surely not win that battle. If anything it would provide a sobering effect. The weather would surely keep company at bay as well, but Grantaire could hope movement made the feeling less lonely. He used his heels to indicate his intention, though it took more than one attempt to bring Koalemos to motion.

It had been some time since Grantaire had ridden, so he did not start off at full speed. An even trot was all that he found necessary, allowed a subdued progress towards his suggested meeting spot. The grey of the sky muted the scenery, with the varied shades of green and yellow pushed closer together in color. Grantare nudged a low branch out from its proximity to his head, sending up a sight of panicked songbirds who he had not been at all near enough to warrant such commotion. Their noise added some energy to the scene, so Grantaire was not displeased by it.

A rather striking shade of red caught the corner of Grantaire’s eye, even though from this distance it was rather small. He had thought it only a robin flying by, but closer attention showed it was rather a figure atop a horse, sticking out uncomfortably so against his surroundings. Grantaire did not think he had to guess who it was, and sped up the approach with a grin already on his face. 

“My, how vibrant we are looking today.” He observed once he was close enough. “Is that a hunting coat?”

“You gave me very little time between the arrival or your message and the time of your proposed meeting.” Enjolras said to defend himself. “I could not find my other riding coat.” 

Grantaire did not comment on it, but he had suspicions that Enjolras had dressed himself in intention to hurry. That would explain his inability to locate the right coat, though Grantaire marvelled at the thought of bothering after more than one, and also the rather disheveled appearance of his cravat. It attracted a great deal of attention to his neck, though Grantaire supposed Enjolras had only planned to meet him out here, so he had no reason to be careful with it. He moved his eyes back to Enjolras’s face, hoping his diversion hadn’t been taken rudely. 

“I am flattered by your haste, I had not expected you to come.” 

“You asked me to.” Enjolras again showed nothing but complete honesty in his expression. How he had ever convinced him to simply act because Grantaire suggested it, he did not know. Grantaire shied away from thinking on it, instead moving for a change of subject. 

“What is the name of your ride? I know little of breeding, I will admit, but the coat is beautiful.” Enjolras looked below him, as if this was the first he had understood he was atop something at all.

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

“Enjolras!” Grantaire called playfully. “You would ask the horse’s services without even knowing its name? You must give it one, at least.” Enjolras cheeks were tinged, either with the cold or with embarrassment. 

“I do not know it’s sex either.” He looked about. “Leaf?” He offered, at which Grantaire laughed aloud. 

“I am affronted by your lack of creativity,” Grantaire said. Enjolras, though weak in his responses, did not seem bothered by Grantaire’s pestering, so he enjoyed the allowed needling. “You could reach for the gods in your selection, yet you choose something so mundane?”

“What would you have me call it, then?” Enjolras asked, beginning to match his banter. 

There was an amused glint in his eye, something Grantaire had begun to notice in repetition. Enjolras had a serious countenance, and did not make attempts at humour often, but when he did they were telagraphed in his expression. When Enjolras made a joke it was very clear how intentional it was, an almost childlike excitement and satisfaction in his own good humor hidden in the corner of his slightly upturned mouth. 

”Should I reach for the Heavens or Olympus, as you artists and poets are so attached.” He asked. Grantaire had the growing conviction that a playful Enjolras was a rather dangerously charming one, as he seemed all too confident in himself. “Would Apollo do?”

“No, that name is better suited to you than your ride.” Grantaire answered. 

He had not caught the words before they came, and was then left with them hanging in the air between them. It was an odd thing to say, by any measure, and Grantaire bit his tongue in self flagellation. Not even he was sure what he had meant by it, only carried away in the easiness of their conversation. 

“Because your horse is dark. And your hair.” Grantaire offered lamely. He cleared his throat, Enjolras’s insecurities as being seen only as above in the back of his mind. There was only wishing he had not internalized it. “I suppose Leaf works well enough, though I would not suggest you share that outside this company.” 

“Mhn.” Enjolras offered in a dangerously thoughtful tone. Grantaire, desperate for diversion, brought Koalemos in a circle around him, pulling attention.

“Come now, I asked you out to ride, let us ride!” He said, before taking off at full speed.

Enjolras, though he did not seem the type to rise to petty rivalry, very much seemed like the sort to rise to any challenge presented to him, and Grantaire was glad to find himself quickly followed. They had a race to run, though there was no distinct end point addressed. Grantaire hardly cared, what use was there to thinking that far ahead.

There is a specific breed of novel, popular amongst young maidens and old widows alike, that is often in subject about sad wives, heated affairs and tragic deaths. Within such books is an odd trend where horseback riding is equated to sex. It is largely due to censorship that these scenes find themselves depicted so. To evade being branded as erotica, it must disguise itself in the image of normal activity. The language of accelerated heart rates, of a body moving beneath one’s own still expose the scene’s intent, even if it is uncomfortable to think of more deeply. It is a strange metaphor but it does the job surely. 

Grantaire would deny it had any place in genuine experience, feeling far more in the way of invigoration than arousal. Enjolras’s horse had ancestry to its advantage, and quickly overtook him. There was only a glimpse offered of Enjolras’s expression, but it was a determined and smiling one. Grantaire shared the experience. While not quite the extreme of adultery, this still felt like a stolen indulgence of freedom in their confined lives. With no destination, and at such high speeds, it felt like they were limitlessly flying from the trappings of this town.

Of course, Koalemos was not as tireless as that in truth, and when he began to slow it was necessary for Grantaire to understand him and pull him back to a heavy-breathed walk. Enjolras, noticing the sudden loss of Grantaire behind him, circled back on a seemingly still energetic steed. The mighty Leaf had won this battle, and Grantaire bowed his head in good-natured defeat before looking upward. 

“Swift as a leaf on the wind.” Grantaire said. “I think it is going to rain.” 

“Is it? I had hardly noticed.” At the breathlessness of Enjolras’s tone Grantaire’s attention was pulled from the sunless sky back to him. 

Enjolras’s hair, though disheveled before, was now completely wild. He had a hand to it, as if that would offer any restraint. There was an expression, small and blissful, though Enjolras seemed to have no awareness of it. Grantaire very nearly felt he was witnessing something secret. There were no limits of propriety, or alcohol in the nature of this emotion, it was just genuinely Enjolras. 

Grantaire could not look away from it, even when Enjolras’s eyes returned to him. His expression faded somewhat, though not in any shielding or negative emotion. It was eclipsed slightly by confusion at Grantaire’s silence. This time, there was no Jehan to pull him from this lapse, so it was left to Enjolras instead. 

“Do we find shelter? We are rather far out, but perhaps we could find somewhere to pass the storm in.” Grantaire nodded silently, even with Enjolras’s further look of confusion he could not yet find words to speak. 

The rain hit them before they found any such place, thoroughly soaking both parties by the discovery of a barn they could duck into. There were no farmers present, so they weren’t under immediate threat of being thrown back out, and it allowed some brief reprieve from the now freezing environment. Enjolras busied himself laying out their coats to dry, while Grantaire stood at the opening and watched the pools of mud do their best to bounce back into the sky at each impact. 

They had come to a bit of an issue, conversationally. Enjolras seemed far more relaxed than Grantaire had ever seen him, talkative and pleased. Somehow this truly had liberated him from some weight, at least for a while, and he breathed easy without it. Grantaire, in reverse, felt like he was suffocating and was more standoffish than any time previous in their exchange. 

Enjolras came up next to him, also looking at the falling water. Grantaire would not admit it, but his hand tensed in the wood beside him at the unexpected closeness. He doubted Enjolras entirely oblivious to his sudden discomfort, but likely couldn’t ascribe a reason to it. 

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire turned his head briefly, to find Enjolras already looking. He turned back just as quickly.

“I suffer headaches when the weather changes.” Grantaire said. It wasn’t untrue, just not his reason for sudden silence. “Do not mind it.” Luckily Enjolras seemed convinced. 

“Thank you, for this.” He said. “You have forced me out of my seclusion, and shown me freedoms I had not thought I would find here. Thank you.” 

“Hold your sentimentality,” Grantaire responded, his voice falling just short of sarcastic and very nearly into harsh, pulling at some potential rise. “You offered a chance at entertainment, I have merely been using you where I could.”

“Then it is a mutually beneficial deal.” Enjolras remained uncharacteristically patient and far too genuine. “Certainly better than the first proposition you offered me.” 

Grantaire could not even remember what he had offered. Certainly something weak, whatever his excuse was to stay close to Enjolras on that physical draw. Surely that had to have been what it was, even then. His uncontrollable mind would not permit him this friendship that he had worked so long at achieving, poisoning it instead with attractions he had not asked for. Grantaire wished some violence on his mind for it, but was forced to settle for gripping the wood harder. 

A hand pulled at his shoulder, and he was suddenly forced to face Enjolras again. He looked away from his expression, the face that his mind had dared to call beautiful in that second that had made him turn so violently inward. He had avoided an notice of it for so long, as it had no place here, in this town or between them. Grantaire had accepted his desires on many levels, but it still felt a violation to think of someone close in such a way. It would only be worse if he fancied the emotion of love paired along with it. 

“Are you sure you are alright?” Enjolras asked again. “I had thought myself better at following your changes, but I think you have somehow lost me.” 

“My father wanted the horse for this afternoon.” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras’s hand off of him and stepping back minutely. “There is sure to be an unpleasant reception at my return.” 

So he found Enjolras visually attractive. This was not entirely a revelation. He had been vaguely aware of it since their first meeting, though he had not let his mind formulate the words. He was beautiful, and this could be understood as a fact, not Grantaire’s own weakness. He would let Enjolras think his worries were trivial while he convinced himself this realization was as well. He would simply not do it again. 

“On the subject of parents, mine have decided to leave.” Grantaire looked up, all of his other concerns vanishing at this announcement. Enjolras answered preemptively. “They have no intention of letting me leave with them. I am to stay here, under surveillance of the servants most likely, but my mother misses the city too greatly to stay away longer.” 

“There is some irony to that.” Grantaire observed, shock subsiding.

“Maybe there is. They intend to hold a ball before they leave, would you come?” Grantaire could not express how little he wanted to interact with Enjolras in a public space right now. “My asking is mostly a courtesy, as I’m sure your father will make you regardless, but I would like to have an ally there.” 

Enjolras was right, of course, but Grantaire did appreciate the gesture. They two had little power over their movements, to at least express a desire before it was forced on them was a sort of prisoner’s free will. He remembered the town dance, and the loneliness of having no one at his side before the arrival of Cosette. That was a burden they could bear together, and Grantaire would not allow rogue thoughts to destroy that.

“Of course.” He said. “I will wear an equally offensive color, so you are sure to find me.” 

“I am not even wearing the coat, I will not be insulted for it now.” 

“You had the audacity to own such a thing, I will offer no protection.” Enjolras laughed quietly, shoulders still relaxed. He had given Enjolras a good day, that at least he had to combat his guilt. 

Rain continued to fall, pulling down leaves with some of the drop’s weight. They would make a damp carpet for the walk home. Grantaire could only hope for some sun to dry their coats as they made their way back, else they would be tempting illness as well as disorder. It would be a stiff journey, but Grantaire could not help but look forward to the opportunity for momentary separation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I want Gustave Flaubert tried for horny horseback crimes, but he already has been so 
> 
> The repression jumping out with my boy R. I warned y'all about the slow burn, this is only the "damn he's hot" realization


	10. Surface Tension

“How undignified I make these clothes appear.” Grantaire observed.

It was an unfixable aspect of Grantaire’s nature. He could be dressed in his finest clothes, hair combed as much as it could be, posture straight and refined, but there would still be something unplaceably unruly in his disposition. He imagined even his skeleton, removed of all else, would give that sense, as it was so ingrained into his form. It was all he could see, looking back at him from the mirror, the aura of discomfort amplified in his reflection. Clothes did not a man make. 

Grantaire hardly cared, either way. He had no wish to match the presentation of his dress. The stiff white waistcoat forcing his spine erect and the firm shoulder line of the blue coat did their best to improve his manner, but could only do so much. It felt like a confinement, and he tilted his head upwards in discomfort at the high collar. He had no ill sentiment towards the tailor, the clothes themselves were not unattractive, but he was not suited to their work.

A ball at the Enjolras residence of course would be no informal thing. Grantaire’s invitation had been insured by Enjolras, but he imagined it was rather selective in choosing its attendees. Those that did appear would all be dressed finely, and it was very unlikely anyone would dare to be adventurous in coloring. The women would use more subtle charms to pull attention, feathers in their hair, glittering pendants, the like. Men had less room for variation, though Grantaire was glad for it, as he had less choices to make. He had promised Enjolras he would dress brightly, only to disappoint.

Grantaire tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, though it hardly moved. The sky outside was already growing dark, though the house was far from asleep. Grantaire continued to observe himself, proving an absent distraction as he fiddled and stretched. It would be much preferable if he could at least dress comfortably for such an event, but he would likely not be allowed through the door if he tried. 

Enjolras must be doing something similar at this time, getting ready. Grantaire would imagine him dressed far better than he, and surrounded by the helping hands of servants. He would look far more put together this time, not a hair out of place, certainly no improperly tied clothing. Grantaire wondered how they would act around each other, Grantaire with his new knowledge, and Enjolras with his uncanny ability to see through him. Some nervousness on that subject likely contributed to his restless air.

He had not seen Enjolras directly since they went riding. Sightings in church hardly counted, as they had never socialized there and Grantaire was certainly not about to start. He needed no carved angels providing the judgemental eyes of God over his thoughts, he judged them enough himself. He had kept his distance, and thankfully by some miracle Enjolras had happened to do the same, but he would come tonight solely because Enjolras had asked. Had it only been his father’s request, Grantaire would have gladly abandoned, but Enjolras he could not so easily betray. 

“Are you very nearly ready?” Bossuet entered, smiling. He was sent as a spy, of course, but Grantaire did not resent him for it. 

“You can look me over, I have behaved.” Bossuet came to straighten his cravat, despite it already being even. He watched his friend, in their proximity, but with slightly unfocused eyes. “It has been some time since I went out with you and Joly. Is he well?”

“Taken ill, I’m afraid.” Bossuet answered. It was a relatively frequent response in the state of their friend. “But he would love to see you soon, I am sure.” 

“Give him my guilt for my preoccupation, as well as good wishes to his health.” Grantaire said, hollow in voice if not intent. His mind was mostly elsewhere, still looking past Bossuet’s shoulder at his reflection. As the family was to be out for most of the night, Bossuet and Musichetta would likely have some spare moments at home, so he was sure the message would be passed along soon. 

Bossuet gave an odd look at the formality, but Grantaire was often in some strange mood or another so he did not push further. He likely attributed it to the distinct lack of alcohol left in his stores after Musichetta’s last raid. Grantaire certainly was made irritable by that, but he would be easily remedied at the party. Bossuet patted Grantaire’s lapels with some worry in his expression, likely thinking the same thing. 

“Your family is ready downstairs. I hope you enjoy yourself, otherwise you come straight to us.” Bossuet said, giving him the escape route he so often needed. It was an appreciated gesture. 

“Ever my guardian angels.” Grantaire said, already leaving.

If he was detached, Grantaire would hardly blame himself for it. Those who knew him were well aware that Grantaire had a moderate talent for many things, but restraint was perhaps his weakest area. To recognize a want meant it had already dangerously taken hold, and any action Grantaire took against it would often somehow morph into the opposite. He was in the horrible habit of giving into his wills, so it was with great personal effort that he dedicated space to suppressing the wishes he had so unfortunately realized. 

Physical attraction was not a new issue for Grantaire, he was not so repressed as that. His gaze wandered, after all, and was most easily caught by things with beauty or shine. He was like a crow in that way. He had of course recognized Enjolras as someone in the form of beauty at their first meeting, perhaps even felt the small pulse of want. He would not have faced it in the moment, but looking back his memories were all tainted with the one of that rainy afternoon, and he was entirely suspicious of himself. Had he been in the city still, he would have gone somewhere to have his needs filled. It was only in this depraved state, where they stayed trapped in his mind and not replaced by experiences with strangers, that Grantaire was left to suffer.

The carriage ride was quiet, he on one side and his father and the lady of the house on the other. None of them had much to say to each other. His father’s wife spent the uneven drive with a hand pressed protectively to her stomach. Grantaire stared out the window, despite the unyielding darkness of the view, just to avoid facing the sight. That too was something he wished to not think on. 

“How grand a place it is.” She murmured, being the only one to speak as they pulled into view. It was said quietly, but the silence of the space made it clearly audible. Grantaire thought the darkness disguised the unkept gardens rather well, but he made no comment on it. 

Lit up at night, the great house did have a liveliness to it that Grantaire thought it so often lacked. The stone became a beacon in the night, calling all of them as moths to it. Many people had arrived already, and they joined a line, invitations being carefully observed before each party was allowed entry. They were met first by those servants, none of whom Grantaire recognized from any of his visits, before then joining a line to greet the hosting family specifically. 

Enjolras was dressed nicely, even from the short distance Grantaire could see. He was similarly colored, a dark coat and light underthings, but a faint golden embroidery across his chest complimented his hair nicely. They both reflected the surrounding candles with a sort of gilded glint. Grantaire allowed himself to observe, because he would imagine almost everyone’s eyes were on the three figures, it would not seem overly strange. 

Enjolras made no attempts to smile in any of his address, but to his credit he met each group with eye contact and his complete focus. More than one young woman giggled at his manner, though not unfavorably. Grantaire did not imagine Enjolras’s parents thought any of them worthy candidates, but Enjolras greeted them each with his complete concentration as if they were someone of great importance. Grantaire could understand how it would be found endearing. 

Because Enjolras was so concentrated ahead of himself, he did not notice Grantaire until he moved directly into his line of vision. Enjolras made no great show of acknowledgement, barely nodding his head, but Grantaire was graced with a small smile. He did not return it, face still feeling too stiff. An exchange of “Mr. Enjolras” and “Mr. Grantaire” were bounced back between fathers and sons, with Grantaire’s family quickly moving politely on. Enjolras looked like he wished to say something, nearly sidestepping his parents to do so, but Grantaire had already retreated into the crowd. 

Much like the library, Grantaire’s only room of acquaintance before this moment, the spaces now exposed to him were very decadent. A high, sectioned ceiling hung painted skies above the open floor, though the blue was tinted almost greenish by the candlelight. On its left side ran a row of curtained doors, all creating access to a balcony, currently deserted because rain had continued to fall sporadically in the past weeks, and no one wished to risk their finery. 

There was no shortage of space because of it, as at the end of the great length of the ballroom was a wide, circular room, providing space to talk away from the music and dance. This room too had paintings, set into the walls just below the change from ceiling to support, a rather French style. Beyond that was yet another room, also meant for conversation. At some point after that, one found themselves in the ballroom again. 

He did not think he had ever been in a building with such a closely planned circuit of rooms by which to host a ball. This house was designed for it, surely, as one was guided along the path from the second they entered the doors. An involuntary tour was given as the crush of people circulated like blood through the space. That itself felt choreographed, though Grantaire had done his best to avoid the dancefloor. He instead found himself just off to its side. 

His return to the room, it would seem, coincided with the start of the first dance. The elder Enjolras was at the heart of the floor, paired with his wife. Beside him Enjolras too had been given a partner. A long-necked, delicate thing with brown hair, pretty, and nearly as tall as Enjolras. As a member of the host family, his dance card was surely full of many such beautiful ladies. Grantaire made a half hearted attempt to escape, but had been locked in by the crowd. 

The music was enjoyable, a refined orchestra providing it. He tapped along to it’s tempo against his leg, knowing he had no hope of joining the actual dance. One or two couples got pulled in from beside him, making like a flutter of white butterflies until they were settled into synchronized movement. These dances were almost certainly designed to be observed, their aesthetic appeal given to the shapes viewed from the side, rather than the pleasure of the dancers. Still, Grantaire thought he would have enjoyed it. 

Grantaire had been the messenger, but it had been in both their hopes that Cosette would be able to attend the ball. She had sent back that she was happy at the invitation, but very much doubted she would be able to come. As he looked around to the best of his ability, that seemed to have been proved true. Grantaire felt her absence, certainly, as he was unlikely to find any other companion in this crowd while Enjolras was occupied. He would even have settled for watching the two of them dance, as it would surely be a graceful sight, and infinitely better than the stiff performance in front of him. 

He wondered if Enjolras’s discomfort was as evident to everyone else as it was to him, or if he had simply spent far too long closely observing him. Faint guilt kept his eyes away now, instead pretending to be occupied with the decorum. He settled for counting candles, while their heat and the close proximity of other bodies made his face flush. 

After the first dance, he watched Enjolras be roped into another, and a gap was finally made for him to slip away and attempt to track down the alcohol. If he had to tackle some server for it, he would, but he prayed to find a table display. He passed his father on his journey, who said nothing, but sighed deeply in his knowing way. Grantaire would not hope for permission, but as usual there would be no explicit attempt to stop him either. 

A woman very openly shied away from him as he passed, solidifying Grantaire’s poor humour. He likely knew her name, if he took the time to dig in his memory for it, but he didn’t particularly care to. While it was the families of lower standing that still used his history as curious debate and discussion, it was these higher ones that met him with complete disdain. The very fact of being part of talk was enough to blacklist him. Perhaps it was they felt they had farther to fall by association. He much preferred bar patrons, that may insult him to his face, but would still be happy to drink alongside. 

He had never actually asked if Enjolras’s parents had formed any opinion of him. Perhaps they simply had not socialized enough to discover it, or that no one had dared speak up on their son’s acquaintance in their presence. He doubted it was truly Enjolras’s resolve and dedication to seeing him, as Enjolras claimed it would be had his parents attempted to intervene. They would not have risked the offense of not sending an invitation, but surely their greeting would have been colder, or given some other clue. He supposed he had no way to know for sure. 

When he finally found the table, it was not long before a corner was cleared by him. He used the area as a retreat, backing up behind the arcade, making it so his view of the long room was framed between two pillars and an arch. The lower, ribbed vaults above him and the narrower space, meant more for decoration than actual passing through, gave him the illusion of seclusion and shaded him from the light and crowd. He would look entirely unsociable to anyone who happened to notice him, but he preferred it to the current of people moving past. 

He had yet to finish his third drink when Enjolras appeared in front of him. He watched initially as he walked past Grantaire’s hiding place completely, taking a long sip and not calling out to him, but at the last second Enjolras’s eye was caught by the movement, and he turned back round. Even stepping out of the light, he still seemed too bright to look at directly. Enjolras made no move to lean against either of the columns, still gentlemanly in posture, but his expression was not just one of politeness.

“I had thought to find you on the balcony.” Enjolras said. Grantaire was unsure whether to be more surprised that Enjolras had been looking for him, or that he had speculated on the nature of Grantaire’s location.

“And I had thought you occupied on the dance floor.” He returned, swirling the liquid in his glass. Enjolras tilted his head in confession. 

“I could not be kept there long. I will admit, I do not have much taste for dancing.” He said.

“You have done the wrong dances, then.” 

“Now even my personal opinions are a subject to contest?” He smiled, despite himself, at the playful tone. Enjolras was making himself frustratingly easy to be around, despite Grantaire’s reservations. He had been so resolved to his bad temper, yet it was now on far rockier ground than he had expected. 

Enjolras seemed to sense that he was now better received, and crossed the small space to join Grantaire against the wall. He didn’t flinch from the proximity, but it was a near thing, and he was painfully aware of Enjolras’s eyes on him. He took another drink, still looking out at the moving mass. He watched a particularly curious headpiece as it sailed atop the sea of heads, though soon lost sight of it. He then repeated the process with a ribbon, a belt buckle, whatever caught his eye so the cycle could continue. 

“Do you think we ever met at an event such as this?” He asked, fearing what Enjolras might say if he was allowed to speak first and direct the conversation. At Enjolras’s questioning noise, he clarified. “When we were young, and your family was in town.” 

“If you mean here I can assure not.” Enjolras answered. “I was rather skilled in finding hiding places. I had no interest in this nature of event.”

Perhaps Enjolras had been a revolutionary even then, sickened by the small talk and smaller ideas. Or perhaps he was simply made uncomfortable by a crowd he did not lead. Grantaire could not relate, as he had attended every social outing he could find in his youth

“Oh, I adored them.” Grantaire said. “So many distractions to be found, so many people to meet. But of course this is a small town, so that charm wore off quickly.” Soon everybody knew him, and then knew his mistakes. His escape then became a rather hostile environment, lonely and stifling where before they had brought excitement. 

“Would you say that you know everyone here?” Grantaire nodded, drinking again. 

“It is not a large circle, this country gentry. Know or know of, certainly.” Enjolras hummed.

“I can barely see anyone in this crowd, it seems only one great mass.” 

“How flattered the ladies would be to hear you say that.” It seemed matching Enjolras’s rather playful air was impossible for Grantaire to avoid. Perhaps he had been over-wary. They enjoyed each other’s company now, perhaps his fear was closer to endangering that than his desires. 

Through the movement of people, Grantaire got repeated glimpses of the other side. It was eyes, mostly, that he met on accident and would turn away. Second later they would return, whispering mouths moving below them. Now the architecture no longer felt like a protection, but rather a display case, as attentions focused on the two of them.

At the hall ball, Grantaire had very much hoped for Enjolras’s presence to share the burden of attention. He had not gotten the chance to test it then, they instead fleeing, nor had they faced higher society in any of their outings together. Grantaire realized now how optimistic he had been. It was not a shared burden, but a heightened one. They were the party’s entertainment, suspicions high and stories spreading. Unlike their parents, there was no belief of good influences, instead they were both met with judgement. 

Because Enjolras was rich, and the host of the party, Grantaire did not imagine it would greatly impact how anyone acted with him in conversation. Grantaire understood that it would be much worse for them should they be a woman, their assumed sins forgivable by many of the “gentlemen” here at least. Once, Grantaire had even been congratulated, though it had been under the strange impression that he had slept with some high standing lady in the city. Their fates were not as bad as they could be, it was likely that either of them could find a wife if they tried, and they would not be considered fallen, but the judgement was still present.

Enjolras noticed when Grantaire fell silent, and followed his gaze. He too waited some moments, observing their observers. Some of the faces looked embarrassed to be caught, avoiding eye contact or turning away, but some continued their speculative spectatorship. How shameless they were, though Grantaire suspected they thought much the same of him.

“Is it always like this?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire supposed he had not been in this environment since his return, and his earlier appearances had been when the people still had favorable opinions of him. Grantaire wondered what story they had fabricated by now, and if it was equally as inconsistent and exaggerated as Grantaire’s own. Enjolras had the record with the police, after all.

“You have been to balls before, Enjolras.” He was intentionally obtuse, and Enjolras’s lips pinched in annoyance.

“Grantaire, you know my meaning.”

He turned away from the mass to look at Enjolras. He was glad to have an ally here, yes, but they had perhaps made things worse for themselves in the eyes of society. They provided a confirmation of their bad behavior by grouping together. They had very little shared experiences, but of course none of them would bother to discover their actual situations, at least not without intention of using it to further fuel the gossip chain. They were two of a kind in their eyes.

“We have given them new material, you and I. We should not be surprised.” Grantaire said. He bit the lip of his glass lightly.

“You did not strike me as the type to dislike attention.” Enjolras’s playfulness was long gone, and in its place was the sort of prying eyes that always came with his questions. Grantaire’s heart rate picked up imperceptibly at the attention.

“Nor did you.” Enjolras said nothing, Grantaire’s weak attempt at escape falling flat.Grantaire shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, though he already found himself answering.

“It is not that I dislike it, only that I am made irrational by it. I will do contrary things to bring attention to myself, and when it comes unbidden I am often compelled to do exactly what I believe they expect of me.”

This much was entirely true, though Grantaire would recognize that the behavior was much the same either way, and this phrasing was perhaps just an excuse for it. Still, he wondered what Enjolras would think of his near admittance at trying to catch his attention. It likely was no revelation, Grantaire had hardly been subtle in those early days. 

“What is it you think they expect of us?” Grantaire had a strong sense of relief when Enjolras looked away from him, even if the questions had not stopped. This was not the note he expected Enjolras to catch on to, but he was not resistant to it. It was a better subject, if not a pleasant one.

“We are the miscreant sons, I would present them with misconduct.”

If they expected Grantaire to get drunk, get into a fight, embarrass himself or his family, that was very likely what he would do. He had already subconsciously downed the drink in his hand, as if preparing to do exactly that. It was a childish behavior, like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but Grantaire was often incapable of stopping himself, or even realizing what he was doing until the act was done. It felt like winning some battle against them, by allowing his own poor behavior, but even he knew how obediently disobedient and sad his actions truly were.

“Should we?” Grantaire blinked at him.

“What?”

“I asked if we should.” Grantaire still met him with blank surprise. There were hard lines around his companions mouth and between his brows, those fissures of anger that Grantaire was so familiar with. “You are more experienced in this environment than I.” He said, to justify his asking of Grantaire for suggestion.

At some point in their interaction, Enjolras’s outward gaze had become rather tempestuous. Grantaire did not know how he had failed to notice it, though he supposed it was more often in his direction, leaving no room for ignorance. Having now realized it, Grantaire straightened nervously. 

He had not anticipated this angering Enjolras so, but he supposed it made sense. Unjust assumptions seemed very much in his realm of distaste, and Enjolras was a proud man with a short temper. He had an equal trend of confrontation. If he felt attacked, it made sense he would wish to rise to it. Grantaire was not suited to the position of voice of reason, though he recognized this exchange sorely needed one to not get very quickly out of hand. 

“Let me pray you are not as genuine as you sound, otherwise you trust me far too greatly.” He laughed awkwardly. It got no reaction from Enjolras, who still looked like a hunting dog ready to be set loose. He did not look wild, but determined, as if one word from Grantaire would send him off. It was a rather terrifying element of control, reigns Grantaire was not at all prepared to hold. 

Grantaire abandoned his glass, hands coming up in a somewhat coaxing gesture. He imagined even if he said nothing, Enjolras would work himself into a state of anger and act out on his own. He needed to guide the situation elsewhere. He was so close to being allowed some small freedom by his parents, Grantaire would not have him jeopardize that by causing any great public offense.

Enjolras had been far too willing to follow his guidance in acting out, but was more resistant to his attempts at calming. He had lost Enjolras’s focus to the crowd, now openly offering glares, and he actively struggled to pull it back. He grasped at the only idea he had, hoping it provided a good enough distraction. 

“I have seen less than four rooms of this great house, perhaps you could show me your hiding places.” Grantaire offered, attempting to pull Enjolras back in. It was still bad behavior, but they at least would not have to see the eyes of judgement around them.

Enjolras still had a stern expression, as if this was not exactly to his expectation of guidance, but he accepted the proposal nonetheless. Grantaire nearly sighed in relief as Enjolras gestured for him to follow. They moved in the narrow space behind the arcade, before Enjolras brought them to what was likely a door meant for servants. They slipped through and left the crowd behind them.

They could hear the sounds of the party everywhere, but it was a stark contrast between the spaces that were open to the guests, and those that were not. Enjolras lit a candle from the store there, but even that had little impact on the general gloom. Grantaire followed, the Eurydice to Enjolras’s Orpheus in the narrow passage, following a figure that made no move to turn back. There was no need to question that Grantaire would follow, he supposed, it had been his suggestion after all.

They soon found themselves in a more open space, with Grantaire then able to walk beside him. The further the moved, the closer their echoing footsteps got to overpowering the distant chatter in volume. Enjolras walked quickly, as if he had a destination in mind, and Grantaire hurried to keep pace while observing their surroundings. 

Where the small number of rooms Grantaire had seen before had been decadent and heavily decorated, the spaces he was now led through had almost nothing on their walls. Most rooms were barren of furniture, and the ones who had it were still covered in sheets. Each doorway he passed revealed yet another ghostly occupancy, stood still even to the lack of fluttering curtains. Their candlelight, and what was allowed by the mood through tall windows, gave it all a rather haunting air. 

He supposed it was not so unusual, for a big house such as this, to have rooms left unused, but he would not have expected the complete vacancy and lifelessness found in the vast majority of them. One could nearly imagine the place abandoned. He remembered, when first coming to the doorstep, how he thought the house so full of life now. How wrong he had been. 

“This house is little more than an empty husk.” Grantaire observed. Only a minute later he realized it was a particularly unkind note to make on a tour of someone’s home. “Ah, I meant-”

“You are right.” Enjolras agreed, cutting off Grantaire’s apology. “Only the rooms needed for show were set up, no effort was wasted on the others. None of us would consider this place home, and it was an unplanned retreat that brought us back here.”

His explanation made sense, but surely even if for a time they would wish to feel they lived in the place. Grantaire had never suspected them of a austere, non-indulgent lifestyle, only confining themselves to the necessities until they could leave it behind again. They had chosen for their son to stay there, yet they could not spare the effort to make it a living space.

“I would at least expect to find it a better disguised prison.” He said. “Was it always this way?”

“My childhood memory sees it more warmly, but not by much.” He glanced to Grantaire. “I am serving a sentence, after all. They may have spared me a jail cell, but perhaps they still wish for me to learn some lesson.”

Grantaire was made quiet by that. It was a more explicit punishment than anything he had received. He was glad for whatever had made him offer himself as a messenger. He hoped his presence had not added to this hell of Enjolras’s, but at least it had come with some respite. Grantaire looked back on his history with guilt, Enjolras forward with determination. He hoped to see him freed eventually. 

They reached Enjolras’s apparent goal, finally turning into a specific room. The door was pushed open, Grantaire ushered in, as Enjorlas went about lighting the candles needed to make the room visible. It was with this new sight that Grantaire realized he was in a bedroom. The realization held him stiffly at the door, though Enjolras had no such hesitations. 

“Enjolras, are you drunk?” Grantaire asked finally, watching as the man stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The question had been weighing on him ever since the dramatic behavior towards the other guests, but now he thought it with an added concern. His voice was somewhat uneven in the question. 

“What?” Enjolras asked, as if it was an entirely odd question. Grantaire wondered if he had any self awareness. Where was the man that had been so easily flustered by any double entendre, and why was it now Grantaire left to panic at the informality.

It did seem that Enjolras’s earlier anger had subsided. Grantaire could at least be confident in that as the right decision. He wondered at the specifics of what had set him off, or if Enjolras had simply been tense from the start due to his parent’s pressure. Grantaire had been entirely distracted from his own bad mood, though the reasons for it were rapidly presenting themselves back in his mind.

“I would like to ask you something.” Enjolras said, standing just before him.

It should be understood that Grantaire was not fully sober. Even without the aid of drink, it had already been exposed how little control he had over his thoughts, so he could not be faulted for looking at the evidence as he did. There was precedent. In perhaps one of the riskier encounters of his time, things had progressed similarly. The high emotions, the slipping away, the bedroom. It all felt rather too coincidental, and there was some weight to the room. 

“I am not usually given a warning for your questions.” He said, throat dry. “What is it?”

Would he say yes to a proposition? He had the physical desire, certainly, and Enjolras could have made the assumption after the episode with Jehan. It would be a far greater leap than anything Grantaire would attempt, but Enjolras did seem the type to be bravely curious. He had been so adamant about rebellion, and had accepted a more secret one. Perhaps this what what he had thought Grantaire had insinuated. Still, he had so few friends here, would a purely physical indulgence be worth it?

“May I call you R?” Grantaire coughed into his hand, blinking several times in quick succession. Had this been the question, or merely the start of it?

“By which I assume you mean to include its connotations?” He could have slapped himself for the suggestive nature of his wording. 

“I have been thinking so since we went riding, I was genuine in my gratefulness to you. Despite your reservations, you have been a good friend to me.” 

His quickly moving mind hesitated, before slowly breaking back down all the pieces of the ill-fitting puzzle and reorganizing them into the right shape. So when he had one realization, Enjolras had another, and it was a fully platonic one. This of course made vastly more sense than his conclusion, and perhaps had his mind been clearer he would have seen it. His face certainly took some journey in the course of this realization, though what it portrayed not even Grantaire could be sure, as he hardly could guess at the emotions passing through him. Whatever he showed, Enjolras seemed to grow uncomfortable by it.

“I’m sorry, I should not have made the assumption.” He said, retreating back towards the bed. 

Enjolras had no need to be apologetic. He had made clear that this gesture was not easy for him, it was on Grantaire entirely for letting his mind wander to such extreme heights. Enjolras had made an offer of friendship, and though Grantaire now wanted to throw himself from the window onto the balcony below, he would not leave it unanswered. 

“No, Enjolras, have no concern. I simply have never been so formally asked for my hand in fraternity.” Teasing was perhaps the wrong response, as Enjolras now only looked hurt. He rapidly tried to repair it. “I have long considered you a friend already.” 

Enjolras smiled, small but much happier than anything he had offered when they had been at the ball. Grantaire hardly felt like returning it, but he did. At least his actions of the evening had been responsible, if not his thoughts. Enjolras did not know how lucky he was to have torn Grantaire from the drinks table, or he would now be downing it entirely. What a ridiculous creature he was, he would take any alcohol induced chance to erase the memory. 

“You must forgive me for being slow.” There was Enjolras again, so painfully genuine and open. 

“There are worse things to wait for.” Grantaire laughed. He did not think he succeeded in sounding funny. 

They wasted time there, Enjolras reenacting his old habits of hiding places in using candlelight to read. Grantaire stared at the dancing flame, having seated himself across the room, wallowing in embarrassment. At least he had not been so foolish to act on anything, but clearly his mind would not stay restrained to that one thought. He certainly could no longer claim it as a rogue one. But Enjolras was his friend, they had just so declared it, and Grantaire would certainly not let it involve anything so unintelligent as the heart. His animal instinct had made themselves known, but God had declared man above for a reason, and Grantaire would certainly not let it win. 

“We disappeared so early in the party, do you think we will have to return?” He asked, watching as Enjolras’s eyes were brought back to him. A test of his declared resolve.

“Yes, I would imagine.” Enjolras’s face soured at the thought, but they both knew it to be true. Grantaire would need to leave, after all, as he certainly had no plans to stay the night. 

“Well, I thank you for saving me, at least for a time. Quite the hero.” This had hardly been the reprieve he would have hoped for, but he supposed company counted for something. He could not ask Enjolras to dance, but he at least had someone willing to speak to him. 

“I will admit, the instinct was largely in self-preservation.” Enjolras closed his book. “I felt very near to making what I’m sure would be labeled a scene.”

Grantaire did not dare point out that he was fully aware. While he would usually enjoy baiting Enjolras’s anger towards him in this sort of self-deprecating mood, the night had already proved itself too dangerous to bring higher emotions into. He simply nodded, making no comment either in the direction of false shock or knowing acknowledgement. 

“I did say before, I had long lost my enjoyment balls.” He crossed his legs, leaning back and attempted to force himself to relax back into their conversation. 

“Since this house is to be mine, at least for a while, I promise to host no more.” Enjolras offered.

“I will hold you to it.” Grantaire counted the number of beats they were silent with his own slowly calming pulse. 

“Grantaire?” 

“I thought you had agreed to call me R.” Enjolras flushed slightly. Grantaire wondered if he had nicknames for many in his life. Perhaps he should come up with one for Enjolras, just to control when he became flustered. It could be entertaining. 

“I asked permission to use it, I assumed the application would be at my own discretion.” Enjolras’s mouth twisted, likely disguising a smile behind the slight frustration. “You’ve made me forget my question now.” 

“Now that trick I must remember.” 

Enjolras’s room was just above the balcony, which Grantaire could tell from the light rising upwards. It also meant that the music easily filtered to them, despite the distance between. Grantaire wondered if he would look out on any figures below, or if they still remained inside, feering the rain that was still undecided on its time of arrival. 

Were Enjolras Jehan, Grantaire would readily ask him to dance to the vaguely audible tune. Yet Grantaire could not bring himself any closer than their positions across the bedroom from one another. They were friends, yes, but perhaps Grantaire had best hold some distance still. At least until he was accustomed. There did not need to be any missteps in familiarity. 

“Shall we?” For a second, Grantaire thought Enjolras had instead asked him. It only took a moment for him to understand it better as a request to return to the party. 

“Back into battle.” Grantaire agreed. When they left, Grantaire kept a foot of space between them, though his non-linear gait shrank and expanded the length to equal measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tension feels like sexual tension when they're hot
> 
> I'll probably need to come back and rewrite some parts of this, I had a lot of trouble with the start. Sorry if I made a lot of rogue choices, literally my only notes for this chapter were "ball" and "bedroom tension" so I got a little wild in connecting those dots


	11. Blowing on Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire realizes he needs to be sure of their friendship before he worries about other things

The pangs of Grantaire’s… Interest, as he would choose to call it, did not stop simply because he wished they would. Many of the grand events in history could have been avoided if such a thing was only a matter of will, but as they and Grantaire would attest, it certainty was not. He could exercise rationality in his thoughts and his actions, but the mind and mouth were not so easily restrained. 

His tongue had long had a mind of its own, so it was perhaps unsurprising that it did not take well to Grantaire’s attempts at suppression. As of yet he had not been betrayed completely, but there were thoughtless comments, jokes, comparisons and the like that would slip into his conversation. It was like when he had called Enjolras Apollo, with similar allusions to his beauty finding their way to being spoken. Luckily, Enjolras seemed to take no notice of the shift, distracted by other things, or if he did he assumed them to be easily teasing as the rest of what Grantaire often said. He was inclined to the poetic, to restrain himself from narrating the beauty of artwork before him was not an easy thing. 

But Enjolras seemed oblivious to it, and in much the opposite direction seemed in higher spirits all together. The response was more tied to the discontinued presence of his parents, alleviating some weight off him or making him more desperate for connection, but Grantaire found himself sought out more frequently as consequence. It was very difficult to say no to Enjolras, leaving him to entirely fail in his hopes at a carefully maintained distance. Grantaire had proven himself incapable of detachment, so his overfamiliarity was the opposite hell.

Grantaire had yet to meet Enjolras’s true friends, those that Enjolras had grown close to without their minds wandering to dangerous places. So far he had escaped every invitation to exchange letters with them. Enjolras had suggested it once or twice, by that Combeferre fellow’s asking, but Grantaire had been sure he would disappoint and had not taken up any correspondence. Eventually Enjolras stopped asking, or discussing the letters at all with him other than their exchange. It came as a rather large surprise when he suddenly announced that the aforementioned friends would be arriving in less than a day. 

The plan had, to his limited knowledge, been formulated for as soon as Enjolras’s parents had confirmed their leaving. Grantaire supposed they could not have known Enjolras well, to not suspect him to act so when unattended. It would be the greatest miracle if they did not find out by the end of the week, or as fast as word could travel to them by servant spy network. Grantaire may be no great master in secrecy, but he certainly knew more about it than they. There was a line between carefulness and the sort of dramatized paranoia that got one noticed anyway. How all three had not been arrested before was a mystery to him, for they were certainly better at advertising themselves and their cause than moving in secrecy. 

Enjolras was excited, very openly so and yet another reason he did not think the meeting was disguised well, so Grantaire had for the most part withheld commentary. Let him be called a saint for sparing Enjolras feelings so, but he doubted whatever high Enjolras was on could be torn down by his efforts. Some remarks on how this could easily be done in Grantaire’s home, or even this town, were inevitable, but they were inevitably ignored as well. 

He had little input on the creation of said plan, yet he was apparently a required asset of it. Grantaire had been crowded into a carriage, his own, for that matter, and ushered off with very little explanation beyond the basics of what he was supposed to do and say. He supposed he had asked Enjolras to follow his whims on less, but he had woken up early for it, and felt entitled to a bad mood regardless. What Grantaire was even needed for, he couldn’t be sure, since his opinion definitely wasn’t being put to any use. 

“Combeferre wants to meet you, I have told you this.” Enjolras said, hearing yet another of Grantaire’s arguments.

“And I am your alibi.” Grantaire responded. As if anyone would really believe he had taken Enjolras by carriage to the next town over for the sake of shopping for new boots. He had hardly believed the excuse had worked on his father, but perhaps it had simply been his insinuation that Enjolras already expected him. 

Enjolras was hardly paying attention, struggling in the constant movement to write something on the sheets of paper strewn across his legs. He was unsuccessful, each jolt making them illegible. Grantaire, sitting across from him, used his own knees to help bracket them against the carriage side. It hardly provided stability, but resulted in less movement from side to side. Enjolras said nothing on his actions, but briefly put a hand on Grantaire’s closest leg to steady it. Grantaire was certain he wasn’t even aware of doing so, being entirely absorbed in his work, but for a second it encapsulated Grantaire’s entire mind. Grantaire shifted to stare out the window, doing his best to not think on it more. 

Grantaire was the sort of person that expressed his affections very physically. He could trust his body more so than his words, in most cases. He had trained in fighting and in dancing, he knew the right moves to make, what could cause him or the others pain. Despite the sharpness of his tongue, it was not nearly as well managed. 

The figures in his life often had a similar language of familiarity. Jehan did not speak much, and when he did it was often reciting the words of others, yet it would be gladly done with a head in a friend’s lap, or with hands in their hair. It was almost stranger for Jehan to not be touching someone, as if a brushed arm or a held hand were all that tethered his wandering mind to the earthly plane. Grantaire was glad to provide that anchor when he could, even if he was not the most secure one. 

But when it came to Enjolras Grantaire was constantly surprised, though in far more delicate terms than Bahorel tackling Grantaire from behind. Grantaire had suspected, because of his early distance, that Enjolras would not touch others often. He supposed that held true, it wasn’t frequent, but that only made each gesture catch him further off guard. Every hand on his shoulder or pulled sleeve managed to shock him still, despite the far greater exposure his other friends gave him. Perhaps they only seemed to tally so high because they held a much more vivid image in Grantaire’s mind. Grantaire felt guilty about why he would react to Enjolras differently, be so overly aware of each gentle expression of their new status as friends, but that had little impact on its continuation. 

“We have arrived.” Grantaire signalled, allowing time for Enjolras to gather his notes before they pulled to a stop. The warmth of his leg moved from against Grantaire’s own, and he once again tried to beat back thinking on it. 

The script he had was to send the driver away with a time to meet them in the evening, then to wait out their departure through some shop window before going to find Enjolras’s compatriots in the park at the center of town. Grantaire was surprised they didn’t want to leave messages inscribed in trees or buried under a bush to detail further steps. The dramatics made him feel like they were far more likely to get caught, but perhaps he simply did not feel the gravity of the situation that they did. In truth, he had much more difficulty taking it seriously. 

Like Grantaire could have guessed, the driver made no attempt to stay and spy on them, simply leaving like Grantaire had suggested. He was relieved, seeing as the clerk of their chosen hiding spot had started to head towards Grantaire with intention. He did not know if it was to pressure him into purchase, or to ask for him to escort his strangely behaving friend from the establishment. He coughed with faux subtlety towards Enjolras, who followed him in quick departure. There was no need to find out which. 

“Do you often meet in secrecy?” Grantaire asked, already knowing the answer.

“No, it is often much more in our intention to bring a wider audience to our meetings.” Enjolras said. “We are careful where we should advertise.” The last was added in defense, clearly noticing Grantaire’s opinion in the laugh lines of his face. 

“I think you may have overcompensated in your lack of practice.” One would think they were spies, or true conspirators against the authority. Grantaire hardly expected them to be stolen away from a town such as this and thrown in the Tower of London for crimes against the Crown. If Enjolras and his group were as great a threat as they seemed to consider themselves, Grantaire did not think Enjolras would have gotten off so easily. 

“If this goes well, we can correct for that.” Enjolras said, still defensive. He was wound tighter than a spring, and Grantaire was unsure in which direction he would go if that tension were to snap. 

They made their way in the direction of the park, or attempted to, at least. Grantaire realized soon enough that Enjolras did not really know where it was, so he subtly moved to take the lead. It was faster than his comfortable walking speed, Enjolras proving a very poor follower and nearly crowding into his space. As soon as their destination came into view, he fell into step alongside him yet again, trailing after even. Even that small burst of leadership had exhausted him.

“This is a rather large park,” Grantaire observed when they halted at the entrance, “Have you any more specific instructions?”

“I passed by in the dark.” Enjolras replied, glaring at the trees as if they had provided personal offense. “None of us had been here before, I had not realized it would be an issue.” 

Grantaire did not respond that if he had been asked, they may not have run into this issue. He had long ago resolved to feeling no jealousy or exclusion in his participation in this trip. He already knew he did not belong. Still, it was a minor wound to have not even been considered in the thought process, other than as the mode of transportation. He was hardly more than Enjolras’s chaperone in this excursion, anyone would feel a bit put out by the realization. He whistled some drinking song to try and entertain himself, though Enjolras made no move to join in. 

They walked slowly, Enjolras seemingly studying every element of their surroundings with a suspicious intensity, squinting as if they were hard to see. Grantaire instead let his eyes easily wander, to gather the details in passing. He caught on a group of figures, not near to them but still visible. They were for the most part unassuming, other than the one that had drawn his attention. Vibrant yellow waistcoat, brown coat, top hat and cane. Even from this distance, his pose alone informed Grantaire that this was a dandy of the city breed. He gestured for Enjolras to see. 

“That seems a rather out of place sight, is it the sign we needed?” Enjolras already had set off without a response. 

“Courfeyrac!” He called, long legs giving him a great advantage in crossing the space. The other companions of the nearing figure also turned at the sound. They luckily met Enjolras halfway, so Grantaire was not brought all the way to a jog as he was quite literally left behind. 

Grantaire, only slightly winded, observed them as Enjolras made his greetings as he caught up. Courfeyrac gave some semblance of a distant hug with two tight hands on his biceps, while Combeferre, Grantaire would assume, waited to instead clasp his forearm with a warm expression. Even with his longest friends Enjolras was only just beyond formal, at least in public spaces. He wondered if that would change behind doors, or if that was simply their manner. They had all grown up as gentlemen, by the looks of it. 

There was a third with them, on the shabbier side of dressing, which had been unexpected. Grantaire eyed his fellow peripheral observer, wondering if this was perhaps Enjolras’s replacement. He had said they worked as a three part machine. The lanky, nervous figure hovering behind Courfeyrac did not seem an obvious trade, but perhaps he had a good stage presence. 

Courfeyrac turned a wide smile to Grantaire as he stepped around Enjolras, and he immediately felt himself smiling in return. He understood now how this was the social facet of their group, his charisma nearly palpable. From his face alone Grantaire could tell he was the sort with an intensely infectious and unafraid sort of laugh, one that once heard could be identified in any crowd. 

“You must be the elusive Mr. Grantaire, though of course Enjolras left us so starved for details that I would hardly know.” That was more than enough to distract himself from the sidestepping of social graces that Courfeyrac had so effortlessly achieved, neither giving nor waiting for any introduction. He gave a fond look to Enjolras, who was already deep in conversation with Combeferre. “He is much better at writing for the cause than of himself, I fear.”

“I hope I meet whatever imagination you used to fill the gap left by him.” He would have much preferred to remain unknown to them entirely, but at least this man seemed an interesting enough figure. Courfeyrac laughed, confirming his theory on its infectious nature. 

Grantaire had not yet been introduced to Enjolras’s manner of writing letters himself. He had imagined them to be rather more like manifestos, if anything. As this morning alone had shown, he was far better suited to grand plans than technicalities. He wondered which of these three that skill fell to. He imagined it was Combeferre. 

“It hardly matters now.” A hand was waved rather erratically between them. “We have met, and any friend of Enjolras’s is a friend of mine.”

Grantaire decided that he liked Courfeyrac. He was the exact sort of person Grantaire would gladly meet at a bar, get absolutely pissed drunk with, then part as sworn brothers likely never to meet again. He had that sort of easy friendliness about him, where one was quickly lulled into trust and camaraderie. He was a siren with a rather impish face, Grantaire gathered, also getting the sense that there was a great deal of cleverness behind the cheerful exterior. 

“I look forward to our friendship.” He said, not dishonestly. The figure behind Courfeyrac shifted again, and Grantaire nodded to him. “Care to introduce us as well?”

“Oh! Yes of course. Enjolras you too.” Enjolras was pulled from conversation, looking over to them. Courfeyrac stepped so his shadow was exposed, presenting him like an award. 

“This is Marius Pontmercy, my new housemate. I promised to help him escape the troubles of the city for a while.” Courfeyrac’s cane quickly jumped between his two hands as he leaned towards Grantaire to whisper. “He frustrates Combeferre to no end. It made for an entertaining journey.” 

“Does he have a tell?” Grantaire asked. Who was he to pass up the insight of a fellow troublemaker. 

“His left eyebrow twitches, like it did just now, looking at us.” He gave a smug wave to his friend, who was clearly aware of the subject of their conversation but was very pointedly ignoring it. Luckily the annoyance did not seem serious, and Courfeyrac went on unbothered. 

“Let us walk some, it is a fine day.” Combeferre unexpectedly suggested. “We can make our way back to the inn after.” 

There was no protest from the general group, so they followed his suggestion. Grantaire fell back a step, as Courfeyrac and his friend were now engaged with Enjolras on the subject of introductions and light interrogation. As he had little to ask on how Pontmercy had come to live with Courfeyrac, and what his positions were, he supposed it was better for him to simply follow behind. He would reward himself for good behavior later, as it was far more often in a conversation where he found no ground for him to wish to interrupt with one, or to at least make some perspective up to senselessly join in. 

Apparently Grantaire was not so subtle in his retreat as he might have hoped, and near immediately Combeferre fell into step beside him. He wondered if he truly hated Marius that much, to not want to even stand in that line of conversation. Enjolras had described him as a polite, reserved man, and he wondered what Courfeyrac’s companion could have done to bring him to the end of his patience so quickly. It could not have been too dire, else what friend would bring him along. He wondered if it would be rude to ask, or if they were used to such things from Enjolras.

“I have heard a great deal about you.” Ah, so this was to be his punishment for avoiding the letter exchange, then. That was far worse. 

“Your friend seemed to disagree.” He said, having just heard the reverse.

“A lot by Enjolras’s measure.” Combeferre corrected with a smile. Grantaire shared it, thinking about how long it had taken to learn anything of his personal life. Enjolras could ask so many questions, but he was unendingly bad at answering them. “Apologies if we have overwhelmed you, coming so suddenly.” 

Grantaire looked over to him in surprise at the sudden change of subject. He found even eyes watching him from behind the rims of his glasses. Where Enjolras’s compelled you to tell him everything, these instead seemed to know all. That said, they were not dissimilar. Grantaire shifted uncomfortably.

“How long have you known Enjolras?” He asked, searching to move attention away from himself. He would leave the inquiry towards his feelings unaddressed. 

“Since we were very young.” Combeferre answered, allowing the transition without protest. 

This made sense to Grantaire. Already he had begun to see elements of influence between the three. Courfeyrac had the same mysterious force that made one naturally accept what might otherwise be considered invasive or forward behavior, though it was done with significantly more charm and laughter. Combeferre was calm where Enjolras could be cold, but they had the same unnervingly observant nature. Already in the first short while of their acquaintance he was beginning to find these three a formidable force. Overwhelmed perhaps was the right word. 

“Have you any interesting stories of the young Enjolras?” Grantaire asked. 

“Once, when we were children, a horse fell and broke two of its legs in the street in front of us. It was a horrible sight, the sounds even worse, and someone took out a gun so to quickly end it. Enjolras threw himself in the way, fierce as ever, saying something of the sort that the life still mattered, even if it could not be useful. That if a single good man stood in that crowd, they would help him make it better, not simply throw it away.”

“Did he succeed?” Grantaire asked, already knowing the answer. 

“No, but I remember standing off to the side and thinking for a moment that he would.” 

“That is not a very happy story.” Grantaire said. Combeferre shifted his shoulders, adjusting them under his coat.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Combeferre looked somewhat embarrassed. “Perhaps you should have asked Courfeyrac instead. I’m sure he would have a less maudlin example on hand, that was the first that came to mind for me. To my credit, I think it is rather uniquely him. Our Enjolras has been much the same ever since his youth.” Grantaire did not know if he was included in that possessive adjective, and did not try to ask. 

Grantaire thought back on their first meeting, with Enjolras spitting insults at a stranger, and his behavior at the ball, ready to throw his chance at freedom to the wind and fight over unheard whispers. As timid as he may be in the way of forming relationships, Grantaire supposed he could not forget Enjolras’s boldness and ferocity, even if he had little occasion to see it. That was as much a part of Enjolras as the rest. 

“There was no hope for that horse.” Grantaire said, mind still lingering on it. Enjolras was brave then, yes, but also naive. He wondered if that was what he was meant to take from that story, or if Combeferre too was blind to it. 

“No one tried, so we can hardly know, can we?” There was nothing antagonizing in Combeferre’s tone, no rise to conflict. Still, Grantaire felt like he had lost an argument. 

They fell silent for a moment. Ahead of them Enjolras was gesturing with great animation, and Courfeyrac was matching him easily. Pontmercy too seemed engaged. Normally Grantaire would not expect himself to be in the subdued half of a group in any context, but Combeferre had somehow involved him so quickly in thoughtful discussion. He may well have been in one of Jehan’s poetry groups, or sitting in a saloon engaging in a languidly unsober conversation on philosophy. He had not noticed it as quickly as he had with Courfeyrac, but this man too had a strong power over people, brought on with his careful articulation and even manner. Perhaps he was the true siren.

“I am a cynic.” Grantaire confessed without inquiry. “No matter what any of you say to me, I am unlikely to ever change from that.”

He could be direct in chasing Combeferre off, at least. He had no interest in their cause, nor anything to contribute to it. By using his name Combeferre had come under the wrong impression, which was the only explanation for him having any interest. Courfeyrac was friendly, so he could leave it unquestioned, but he did not want to build up Combeferre’s faith in him any further. He had no taste for expectations. 

“And I am a skeptic, we are not so far off from each other.” Combeferre returned. “A cynic still recognizes the problems in the world, and is slightly less dangerous than ignorance for it.” He gave a glance, mostly hidden by the glasses. “However, the stance that nothing can ever be helped or changed certainly doesn’t aid a cause like ours much.” 

“That is the warning I intend to give.” 

“There is more to you than your use.” Combeferre said. 

“I would be flattered, had I not just been compared to a lame horse.” 

He went for humour, but he could not help but observe Combeferre closely as he did. That moral had been far too close to many of his insecurities about Enjolras’s relationship to him. Had that been pure coincidence, or had he somehow read that into their brief and completely unrelated exchange. Maybe Enjolras had been the one to sense it, and confide something in one of his letters. That option did not bring Grantaire any comfort, instead feeling as if he was standing on a rocking boat. Combeferre gave no sign of noticing or being the cause for his disquiet. 

A dog ran up the side of the path farthest from them, likely in pursuit of some small animal or fleeing from a larger one. Its speed startled the couple walking opposite, and they were forced to quickly jolt to the side to avoid its path. The sudden change in trajectory caused the farthest protruding member of their party, being Marius, to collide rather directly with one of the linked figures. It effectively broke both apart from their belonging groups, and caused a chorus of apologies. With absolutely no explanation, Pontmercy went entirely stiff and fell silent, only making his partner in collision apologize with more concern after her own beat of silence. This time her voice was loud enough for Grantaire to recognize it. 

He quickly came up behind Marius to see a worried Cosette clutching her parasol, likely to avoid flitting about around the now unresponsive figure before her. He had not recognized her before because of the unexpected hair color, though he still could not be sure if this was her true one. She spotted Grantaire in his approach, smiling at him happily but only looking more concerned. He opened his mouth to address her, but was halted by the most minute shaking of her head. The old man standing behind her was a large, foreboding presence, and while she did not seem at all alarmed by him, Grantaire knew better than to cause any unnecessary issues for her. 

“Apologies, Sir, Miss.” He said as respectfully as he could muster, using a hand behind Marius’s back to force the stunned man to bow with him. The old man looked suspicious still, but Cosette took his arm and guided him away quickly. She spared a glance back, but it was not at Grantaire. 

As soon as they were out of earshot Pontmercy seemed to regain motion, and Grantaire found his lapels seized in an unexpectedly strong grip. A wide-eyed Marius was inches away from him, smiling as if he had just seen the sun after the longest winter. He had some inches on Grantaire, and his heels were brought off the ground by the effort. 

“You saw her too? She was real, not an angel descended from the heaven’s to reside only in my imagination?” This was the first Marius had spoken to him directly, and he could not say this was what he would have expected. 

“Yes, I dare suspect she is a child of Adam and Eve just as the rest of us.” He said, laughing a little. You would think this man possessed, but he would admit it was at least a little entertaining. He was released as Pontmercy went to pick something off the ground.

“This was left behind, should I go return it to her?” He asked, a handkerchief held in his grasp.

“I think her too long gone for that, my friend.” Courfeyrac reasoned, clasping a hand on Marius’s shoulder as if fearing he really would take off after them. “She can live in your imagination now, as do all the beauties that bless us with their passing.” 

“Her beauty surpasses all of them.” Marius said, still gazing after her.

Grantaire was not immune to the charms of women. Cosette was kind and beautiful, and certainly did deserve devotion. Grantaire had felt none of it beyond the bonds of friendship, but perhaps he could have. He had chosen to fight against all of that when he had realized that both sexes pleased him, he could not separate the feeling, so he instead repressed it all save for when he allowed himself specific outlets. Grantaire wondered if things would have been easier for him had she been the one to slip past his guarding, rather than Enjolras. With the strange life she seemed to lead, he doubted it. 

Contrary to many aspects of Grantaire’s character, he had never fallen in love at first sight. Not with anyone of any gender. In truth, he had not thought it possible. Perhaps those that lived in the realm of experience where their affections did not need to be hidden away from the world and from themselves felt differently, and could conjure such an emotion faster. Grantaire certainly had never experienced it. He wondered if this Romeo had a Rosaline back home, and often found himself so enraptured from a look alone. He could accuse Marius of only lust, but there was a strange glow about him that very nearly made Grantaire think he had just witnessed something significant. 

That would hardly keep him from judging the rather dopey look Marius now sported, as well as how closely he held the dusty fabric to his chest. 

It took some coaxing on Courfeyrac’s part, laughing at how he had not even thought his friend aware of the opposite sex, but Marius was eventually lured back to the inn that had been their destination. He seemed left in a daze, occasionally gazing back and hardly interacting in conversation. Grantaire was left to manage him for most of the walk, the triumvirate taking the lead. He provided very little in the way of conversation, other than asking after Cosette. Grantaire was grateful that he did not have much information to give, because while Marius’s behavior was endearing, he would not care to have someone of that sort of intensity show up at his door. Enjolras could give him the address, if he wished, but Grantaire would not. Marius tucked the handkerchief into his coat over his heart.

The inn was not deserted, but it was an unnatural enough time of day for such a place that it was very close. They easily found a back corner with absolutely no one about, allowing for unhushed discussion. The low rafters over that part of the space made it feel more secluded than it was, an architectural protection. Enjolras and his friends settled into the environment immediately. They likely found themselves in similar establishments on a regular basis. 

Grantaire left them briefly to pursue whatever drink the place would offer, hardly caring at the early hour. He was yet undecided if he should sit with them at all, hanging around as dead weight, or if he should wait it out at a different table. Perhaps he could find some regular to make friendly conversation with, have one conversation that day without the undercurrent of nervousness. A drowsy-eyed young woman behind the counter who introduced herself as Gibelotte promised quickness, though from her movements Grantaire doubted it. 

A raised voice made Grantaire jump, and he turned to look back at the group over his shoulder. Enjolras was back on his feet, looking enraged. Grantaire wondered briefly how things could have spiraled to such dramatics so quickly, but he then realized that the anger was not directed at any of his companions. He must have just been given some news, because his eyes instead focused outward, as if he could seek out those who deserved his anger by staring into the horizon. Grantaire found himself lured back, despite his other plans. 

“I have heard it called the Six Acts.” Combeferre was explaining. “Some men have already had their houses raided and themselves arrested. It is a direct attack on the press and any group gathering they deem suspicious.” 

“It means they are frightened.” Courfeyrac justified. “There has been unrest all this year, Scotland and Ireland too.” 

“They would make to frighten us as well.” Enjolras’s fists were tight. “How few of these groups have turned to violence, and yet they would rather use it against us than hear any of the people’s pleas. They fire into crowds, drag men away and disappear them into prison ships and penal colonies. The only laws that change are ones that further protect them.” 

Grantaire grew inexplicably restless, not yet sitting back down. He had been pulled back into orbit, but now feared getting any closer. A moth to a flame, but one that still feared getting burned. Enjolras seemed to look up at the whole world with that gaze, and Grantaire too felt the need to be included in it. He wanted to be seen, even if Enjolras had to look down on him to do so. What a strange spell he was under, for his mind to be so odd in its language. 

“Early April showed that we are the victim of misinformation and disorganization.” Combeferre moved to clean his glasses gently. “Both protests and uprisings failed because there was no communication. People arrived at the wrong places, at the wrong times. Parliament fears unification, which is why they are now dedicated to stopping our meetings and writing. They know losing that will weaken our ability to organize even more.” 

Grantaire snorted, audibly enough that attention turned to him. It was intense, but he did not hide under it. He had no intention to speak during this meeting, but he could not help but voice an opinion now. Despite it being Combeferre’s words, he found himself meeting Enjolras’s eyes. He was not sure if he liked what he saw there. 

“Apologies, but even with all your newspapers and meetings you could not hope to unify the whole country.” He tore his gaze away from Enjolras’s cold fury and looked about the group. It seemed his logic had no grounding in their minds. “You have no way to reach them all at once, there is always the delay, the lost letters.” If that had been enough to cause failure for them so far, what confidence could they have after?

“That is no reason for us to stop trying. The fact of the matter is that unity is what we need to reach change.” He wondered if Combeferre regretted sympathizing with his cynicism now. He seemed calm, but Grantaire imagined an edge of discomfort behind his words. Enjolras was still silent, but there were eyes burning their way into the side of Grantaire’s head. He had attention now at least. 

“If that is what you need, then you should surely give up now. It is not possible.” He wondered if any of them had ever been directly challenged before, as he was met with confounded expressions. What a radicalized bubble they must exist in, to have Combeferre’s equally optimistic “practicalities” to be the best of their reason.

Courfeyrac looked unhappy with the sudden tension. He was trapped on the other side of the table, and could not move between the challenging stalemate that was Grantaire and Enjolras as the two standing figures. Instead he drummed a quick tune on the table, looking cheery, and attempted to change focus entirely.

“We can speak of this at our next meeting. What do you think, Enjolras, would it be safer for us to change towns and go closer to you?” Marius, who had so far been watching the exchange with wide eyes and a silently moving mouth, as if he had been thinking of things to say but hadn’t the confidence to say them, made an undignified squawk of alarm.

“But we can’t.” He said, grabbing the arm of his friend in a tight grip. Courfeyrac’s smile grew a little brittle. “She is here, we can’t leave.”

“We are not here to chase women.” He definitely heard it then, the mark of annoyance in Combeferre’s voice. How quickly he and Marius had gotten them both to crack. While he had drunk near to nothing, Grantaire felt intoxicated by the unpleasant energy.

“Oh, but do you not think a romantic plot in the midst of your political intrigue would not make for a better story? You could hardly find better on the stages of an opera.” Courfeyrac looked likely to laugh, at least, but was cut off. 

“Take this seriously.” Ah, the leader himself now rose as the star of the show. Grantaire had been waiting for this.

“I would prefer not to.” 

“Leave, then. I am not in the mood for your disruptive antics. I will fetch you when it is time to leave.”

“You’ll fetch me?” He laughed. “I am sure you are unused to it, but I am not one of your play soldiers to be ordered around, nor one of your servants. Have you recruited all those in your employ, or do you only care for the working class when you are out for the day?”

He had not seen Enjolras so angry in a long while, perhaps ever. He had the sort of terrible expression that would make most men shake with fear. He could stare down a lion if he tried. Yet, like when they first met, he felt the inexplicable desire to push further. Whatever instincts had kept man alive as long as this, Grantaire did not share them. 

“At least I am not content to make excuses for not changing the state of the world simply because I am already comfortable in it.” 

“That is hardly my reasoning-” Enjolras cut him off, voice loud enough to fill the space. 

“It makes no difference. If you do nothing with your opinion, it means nothing. You can claim sympathy all you want, but if you stand by and let it continue you are not any better than those who do not care at all.”

He thought of Combeferre’s story of the horse. It had been a rather accurate portrayal then, Grantaire had only felt it out of place because he had not seen Enjolras in his full form. What he had seen in sparks and embers was now a fire. The Enjolras he had known had been a nearly extinguished, weak form of himself far from what he needed to thrive. This was the foreboding creature they put in front of crowds, that could intimidate, convince. The passion Enjolras claimed all were blinded by. Grantaire imagined it was much more alluring when the anger was at a shared enemy, but it made his pulse quicken all the same. 

A hand on Enjolras’s arm caught his attention. It was Combeferre, looking down at the table with misleading impassiveness while he held him in a white knuckled grip. Whether he was providing restraint or support, Grantaire could not tell, and Enjolras did not react to either. It was a silent reminder too, showing Grantaire again how these were Enjolras’s fellows, not his own. He had no place to be speaking here at all, and even Enjolras had told him to leave. Such a thing had hardly ever stopped him, but he was some strange place between angry and excited. His words so often betrayed him, he hardly knew what they might reveal now. 

“Continue with your unachievable goals, then.” He said. “I am taking the wine.” 

The first thought was to move to another table, but Grantaire’s feet moved him too quickly away and before he was aware of himself he had left the doors completely. He considered briefly finding a way to abandon Enjolras here, as some petty punishment. Leave, make sure the carriage had no reason to arrive later, and cause Enjolras to lose his alibi completely. He still doubted the servants paid as close attention as Enjorlas believed, but it would certainly cause him stress as he wondered if it would. 

He sat down, legs collapsing at the same time as his resolve to do any such thing. He had been the instigator, the one that chose to meddle in their ridiculous ideas. He had known he would not agree with them before coming, had kept distance for this very reason. Still, it was hardly on Enjolras alone. To make another cruel move would be the last nail in the coffin of their friendship, if that alone had not been enough to destroy it already. Well, at least he had Feuilly and Bahorel in the town, assuming they did not move on or choose Enjolras over him. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were there as well. He had built a network, where Enjolras had not. Even in losing Enjolras he would be left with those foundations. 

The mood that settled around him was not a pleasant one, but he battled it somewhat by taking long sips and watching birds move overhead. Had he been in a more crowded area, he perhaps would have been firmly instructed to move on, but he was left alone to wallow. Grantaire tilted his head back completely, resting with a neck exposed and face towards the sky. He doubted even if it rained he would move. He had the sudden desire to be completely stationary. 

That was where Enjolras found him, though by that point he had resorted to tracing drawings with the pad of his finger like he had as a young boy trapped in any social event where he had to be mute. Even his stationary nature was restless, he supposed, having long worn the skin to tenderness with invisible designs. He stopped them only when Enjolras came to stand in front, having absently watched his approach.

“We should go meet the carriage.” He did not explain how he had found Grantaire. Perhaps he had not wandered as far as he thought.

They made their way back to the shops in silence, and did not even look at one another as they waited. The unpleasant air between them had to be evident to every passerby, them giving a wide berth. Even after the arrival, all that was said was a short greeting by the driver. They both climbed in, sitting on opposite sides yet again. This time, both their knees were kept firmly appart. It was long after the town had disappeared from their windows before anything broke the silence.

“I see now why so many treat you as above them.” Grantaire said finally. “Who could not, when faced with such a vengeful archangel as yourself. Is it worship or fear that you draw from them, do you think? I suppose obedience comes either way.”

It was not what Grantaire had intended to say. These were bitter, cruel words that Enjolras did not deserve, coming from some place Grantaire thought he had calmed while sitting under the birds. He had not been watching Enjolras as he said it, but he wondered if the man flinched. It would have been well disguised by the compartment’s movement. He had driven straight through Enjolras’s armour with the chink that had been entrusted to him. It was unkind. 

“I thought you had promised never to think similarly.” Enjolras said. His voice was stronger than expected. Perhaps Grantaire did not have the power to hurt him to the extent that he thought he did. 

“What worth does my word have.” Grantaire sank into the misleadingly cushioned seat. It had very little give, making his lower back protest. “I had warned you.”

“But you had to fulfill that warning?” Now Enjolras was looking at him, but Grantaire could not meet his eyes. “You told me at the ball that you act as how people expect you to. I don’t believe it. There were no expectations here, no one to think badly of you but yourself. I think it is rather you act out whenever the mood takes you, and only shift the blame to others because it is easier.” 

“I also said that I often acted so to gain attention.” Grantaire corrected. Why not add to the brutal examination of his character. 

“Whose attention did you need? You were with them, just as I.” 

Grantaire could not say “yours.” That would only confirm Enjolras’s theory of Grantaire’s childishness. Perhaps he really had thrown a tantrum, and been so dramatic because of his own pre-existing ill temper, or worse, a feeling of entitlement to Enjolras’s time. Both made more sense than his own ridiculous explanation, of wanting to be included in the grand view of the world that Enjolras held. There was nowhere he belonged less. Still, he would not be convinced that his words were wrong. 

“My points are not invalidated by my manner of presenting them.” Enjolras did not yell, or clench his fist in any other sign of anger, but he had a sense of righteousness instead.

“Points? You treated it like entertainment, laughing and interrupting. I believe in what we are doing with all that I am, I have to, and for you to belittle that felt like an attack on my person.” Grantaire had anticipated petty bickering, not confession of emotion. He could not respond in kind.

“I thought you said that this was not who you are.” He said, contrary as ever. 

“I was drunk and inarticulate. It is not that this is a facade, only that it is only one component of who I am. It is very often treated as the only aspect, which is why I feel like those who solely know who I am with the cause do not truly know me.” Enjolras looked sad, then, which caused a deeper stab of guilt than any other reaction he could have had. “Very few have seen me both in and away from it. I had considered you one, but with how shocked you seem I suppose that was wrong.”

Enjolras had been something to see with Jehan, Feuilly and Bahorel, certainly, but hardly the same. Clearly having been trapped here away from his friends had been a greater suppressant of Enjolras’s character than he had realized, not knowing him from any time before. The man before him was not a stranger, but rather, as Enjolras would put it, finally reunited with the other part of himself. He was whole, not because of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but because of the cause they brought with them. 

“I have seen it now.” Grantaire said, softer than he likely had any right to be. “Whether you count me among your friends or not is your own decision, but if that is what you think it means to know you, then I count for that at least.” 

They were left in a less hostile silence then, waiting out the rest of the ride with those words hanging in the air. It was not Grantaire’s ideal environment, but he could hardly do much to escape it without throwing himself from the buggy window and walking the rest of the way home. There was no clue to the contents of Enjolras’s mind, and Grantaire did his best not to worry over it. 

When they finally stopped, Grantaire’s hand was grabbed as if to hold him there, despite it being Enjolras’s place of departure. He immediately turned a panicked gaze to the driver who had opened the door, but it seemed like he had already stepped back and out of view. Enjolras seemed fearless, or perhaps naive, and did not let go.

“We should not leave it on bad terms.” He said. Grantaire observed the gesture, taking it for what it was. Before he could think too much of it, he placed his other hand over Enjolras’s. 

“From the very start we knew there was a difference of perspective.” It was not an apology, nor were Enjolras’s words. But there were unsaid reparations in the touch.

“Yet we have found friends in each other despite this.” The hand slipped from his, and Enjolras descended. “I will see you soon, Grantaire.” He said, before the door closed.

Grantaire let himself slide down into the seat as soon as Enjolras departed, a deep sigh leaving him. He felt more exhausted than if he had gone half a week without sleep. Yet he was not unhappy. Their friendship had survived this, which was a testament to its strength. Grantaire would not have suspected their bond deep enough to withstand any conflict, but he did not think Enjolras one to lie. He had yet to call him R, despite the request, but even the use of his name felt significant enough. 

Upon returning home he forewent dinner entirely, slipping up to his room to avoid giving excuses on why he had returned with no evidence of shopping of any kind. He had run out of all the energy he needed to form words, having used the last of them with Enjolras. It had been a resounding mess of a day, and he was happy to escape it with the embrace of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had trouble with people acting ooc from like paragraph one of this fic, but these last two chapters were so goddamn frustrating I nearly gave up entirely. I couldn't even start this chapter for so long, and when I did I got so annoyed with it I made them have a whole ass unplanned fight. So that was a mildly angsty chapter now. Still can't get the characterization of anyone right, if that wasn't clear from Marius being a literal charicature. 
> 
> Anyway, things did not work out well for the Yorkshire West Riding Revolt, the Radical War and all the other related people trying to bring change in 1820. The history is interesting to read about though


	12. Caught in the Current

The integration of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Marius into their lives certainly marked a change. The three had finally come over from the other town after two weeks, much to Marius’s disappointment. Enjolras wasted no time in introducing them to Bahorel and Feuilly as well, forming a formidable little group of revolutionaries in the last place one would expect. Grantaire certainly never would have pictured them anywhere he was, but he soon found himself a conduit. Enjolras suggested he contact Jehan as well, and he even found himself considering bringing Joly or Bossuet along too, knowing that while they were careful of their words in the house of their employer, he had seen them drunk enough to know they had similar thoughts to his new surroundings. How he had found himself so immersed, Grantaire could not know, but his head had been underwater before he had noticed the room filling, so to speak. 

He would not have anticipated how closely it affected him, not just as a surrounding either. Combeferre and he had become unanticipated friends. Perhaps it was not so unexpected as Grantaire felt, they both loved art, literature, and had found themselves following a fiery blonde against what might seem like their better judgement. The man was not quite a confidant, but they enjoyed each other enough to meet outside Enjolras’s organization. It had been Combeferre to suggest he return to another meeting, and for some reason Grantaire had not refused.

If he had been there only as a disguise for Enjolras, Grantaire would have understood and kept his distance, talking to other bar patrons or distracting himself with a sketchbook. Yet the others continued to genuinely engage him in conversation. He wondered if it was Combeferre’s efforts to prove something, about how he did not need to do something for them to be worth speaking to, or whatever that story moral had been. It was possible he read too far into it, but as he grew closer to Combeferre he doubted he could even guess at the depths of his plans.

He had grown fond of the other two as well. Marius, who was ever grateful for the listening ear Grantaire could provide with at least some sincerity, and Courfeyrac who was wittier than Grantaire could ever hope to be, as well as more dashing. Grantaire did not find himself needing to frequently change behavior to suit them, instead enjoying the authenticity of their manner and to some extent mirroring it. He may have no care for their politics, but was glad to be among friends. 

Grantaire spared a look to Enjolras, who was walking silently alongside him. Friends indeed, he thought, though their relationship only continued to complicate itself. Now that Enjolras had settled from his excitement, he had noticed that Grantaire talked less around him. He had a loose tongue, and while he still misspoke more than he would like to when he got in high spirits or consumed too much drink, his more dangerous thoughts were easier to suppress in group settings when he could focus his attention onto any of their companions. They were not so easily escaped when he and Enjorlas were alone, and so he had traded easy conversation for the tightening of his lips and the safety they could provide. 

What was worse was that they both knew the change had nothing to do with the arguments that continued to happen whenever Grantaire was particularly affronted by their naivety. With those they had quickly developed a pattern, both two stubborn to ever admit being wrong, and equally bad at articulating apology, Grantaire had turned to his body as he so often did. Small gestures were often all the reparations they needed to return to normal. The innocent intimacies provided their own level of hell for Grantaire, but they were worth it when he could see the frustration and anger in Enjolras’s expression ease away. 

But as of late a furrow between Enjolras’s brows had been impossible to fully eradicate. He suspected something of Grantaire’s shift in behavior, and while it was yet unsaid Grantaire could near feel him guessing. The expression always made Grantaire nervous, because he was sure it was result of Enjolras trying and failing to see through him. It had not yet worked, certainly, or Grantaire was sure that Enjolras would not so easily touch him, but he lived in fear of when Enjolras finally figured out the right questions to ask, or worse, Grantaire gave himself away. As was the reason for his increasing silence. Grantaire’s mind continued to complicate itself, there was no need to give any of it a voice. 

“Why did we choose this route back?” Enjolras asked, breaking the silence finally. It was unusual for Grantaire to not already be filling it. 

“Your grounds are beautiful, why would we not detour to see more of them?” Grantaire asked. They had long since veered off the main lane, making a wide arc to explore the territory under Enjolras’s estate name as a route back from one of the meetings. Enjolras had made no protest so far, simply letting Grantaire guide their wandering path. 

“It is not the most pleasant weather to spend unnecessary time in.” 

This much was true. It was not yet evening, and there was a thick, humid quality to the air. The sort that made Grantaire’s collar cling to his throat and damp curls to his sweating forehead. Not even the shade provided the necessary relief, as it seemed to come less from the sun and more radiating from the very earth beneath their feet. Grantaire doubted the temperature would much improve even after the light fell beyond the horizon. 

Even Enjolras displayed discomfort, a flush reaching across his cheeks. His hair had curled more due to the humidity, letting each strand stick out at odd ends. He looked endearingly disgruntled, and Grantaire bit back a smile at the thought. Luckily Enjolras was not looking at him, as he was sure some of the fondness showed in his expression. How Enjolras looked beautiful even in such a state, Grantaire could not know. 

“Are we in need of a solution?” He asked, already thinking.

“Are you going to suggest one?” There was teasing in Enjolras’s tone, implying one of his more consistent frustrations with Grantaire’s feedback during meetings. Grantaire was glad they could joke about it, because he doubted there would be any change. 

“In this case alone I can think of an answer.” He responded in kind, smile slipping onto his face now undisguised. Enjolras matched the expression.

“I defer to your judgement, then.” 

Grantaire led them further astray, following the river that could be seen cutting through the space behind Enjolras’s great house. Grantaire had spent a long enough time by its banks to know of the places where the water came to safely rest, even if they did not fall within the bounds of his own property. The one nearest to where they were now was such a place, but it had the cover of trees and seclusion that Grantaire hardly thought it a risk. 

Enjolras was clearly not aware of its presence, as he reacted with noises of confusion when Grantaire suddenly turned off the path, making his way through a wooded incline while unbuttoning coat and waistcoat. He did not fully undress, giving no care to the state of discomfort he would have to make his way home in, depositing the removed items on the water’s edge before wading fully into the water. He dropped down, submerging his head entirely, before finally turning back to confirm that Enjolras had followed. 

He found him looking stiff next to where Grantaire had deposited his boots, making an almost comical parallel with their positioning. He did not look mad at Grantaire for acting overly-comfortable in a place that he did not live, but there was an air of bewilderment to the nature of his actions. Grantaire thought that unfair. He did many nonsensical things, but surely this one had a clear explanation.

“Have you gone wild?” Grantaire shivered slightly at the now much colder seeming breeze. 

“Come now, Enjolras, I thought you wished to be relieved of the heat.” He defended, sweeping wet curls from his eyes. His untucked shirt provided a close holding cover of his chest and arms, pulling more water up with his movement. 

The place he had brought them was a momentary swelling of the river’s sides, where the water was brought to a much gentler speed. On one side was a sloping waterfall, hardly longer than Grantaire in width and leaving the higher side in full view. It was mossy and shaded, with some branches reaching far over the water. There was just enough current that one would not be immobile if fully suspended, but they would not be quickly carried off either. It was more like the gentlest of caresses around Grantaire’s legs. Enjolras eyed it’s surface distrustfully. 

“Do I need to offer you some strange challenge to convince you? Don’t tell me you are only brave in opposition.” He moved backwards into deeper water, using his hands in continuous movement. “No, Enjolras, do not come in the water. It is against the Crown’s command, may God look down on this unholy baptism.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows in judgement, but Grantaire knew from the set of his jaw that he was entertained. They could be comfortably blasphemous around each other, at least, and some light talk of treason was nothing uncommon by this point. Grantaire turned to float on his back as Enjolras started pulling at the white knots of fabric around his neck, closing his eyes against the dappled lighting until he heard splashing steps and the sound of Enjolras’s displeasure. 

“You might have warned me of the temperature.” He said, already much closer than Grantaire had realized. He opened his eyes, but stayed on his back. 

“How difficult you are to please.” Grantaire replied. “Is that why a desirable bachelor such as yourself remains unmarried?” 

This. This was why Grantaire had resolved to speaking less. He did not have Enjolras’s influence or Courfeyrac’s charm to disguise the rudeness of such questions. He could not help but think them, when seeing someone with the physical attributes, wealth and mystery that Enjolras acquired, but it was not his position to voice them. Of course his mouth was seldom restrained by such concerns, but it left his words so often hanging in the open air as they did now. At least he had not monologued on said traits, going for unkind rather than infatuated.

“Marius is in love.” He spoke quickly, giving Enjolras no time to respond. “He told me so himself.” The sound of water moving, Enjolras waiting some time before offering a response. 

“Have he and Cosette met again?”

“I could not be sure. He seems rather paranoid that Courfeyrac would bewitch her away from him, and has been secretive of anything beyond singing her general praises.” He hummed thoughtfully. “If she managed to create an exchange of letters between us, I am sure she could communicate with him even if her family was disapproving. I do not think her so easily stopped.” 

“I am sure she could. The question is if they have, and if Marius’s interest is genuine.” This surprised Grantaire. 

“You think him insincere?” Perhaps Combeferre’s dislike had spread to Enjolras, as surely anyone who sat with Marius long enough would not doubt him. 

“You told me once that in a town such as this people must play games with themselves to stay entertained.” Had he? Grantaire had no memory of it. “Who is to say this is not merely a diversion he has convinced himself of?”

This cynicism was unexpected from Enjolras, but not entirely unreasonable. Neither of them knew all that much of Pontmercy, and if Courfeyrac as his closest friend was any indicator, he would collect lady loves in large numbers for short times. Grantaire had not gotten this sense from him, the large besotted eyes being rather misleading, but he could be the sort to simply fall in love as easily as breathing.

“So you suspect him of being a Romeo with some Rosaline back in the city, in love with Juliet only because she is what is in front of him now?” Grantaire wondered aloud. Enjolras made a dismissive noise. 

“That sounds far more complicated than anything I said, I hardly know what that means.” Enjolras corrected. Grantaire snorted. “As much as any of us can tell, his attentions are from afar. How sincere can they be?”

Now that Grantaire could not agree with. He watched the different shades of green above him, each made by different amounts of sunlight reaching through leaves. It was a calming sight, and the small patches that reached him caused a careful dance of pleasant warmth and blinding light. Grantaire had not loved many times in his life, but they all had felt as distant as those leaves above him. He could enjoy the sight, but they would be forever out of reach. 

“Perhaps I can not speak for Marius, but I have only ever loved from afar, and I would still think my feelings were legitimate.” This resulted in silence. Grantaire feared whatever thoughtful expression may cross Enjolras’s face, still turned upward and unable to see, and he had no wish for the subject to be pressed further. It was his own mistake for bringing attention back to himself, so he then tried to shift its target. “What, you would tell me you have never let yourself love the idea of someone distant from you?”

“That seems unfair to the person who is being loved for an idea, not for themselves.” Enjolras said, latching on to entirely the wrong part of Grantaire’s sentiment. He did not say he hadn’t, but Grantaire felt it was a close enough answer. Enjolras would never do something he considered unfair. If anyone’s emotions were subject to force of will, Enjolras’s was certainly strong enough to achieve it. Grantaire was not so lucky. 

“Sometimes the subject of love has no interest in receiving it, is it not then better for them to be given that distance?” 

Such a situation sheltered both the object of affection and the admirer, in Grantaire’s mind. The admirer would not be close enough to the person to have their imagination shattered, and would therefore not be hurt by them, and the object of affection would have the admirer’s imagination doing all the work for them. They would be unaffected. It was the perfect system to remain happily unfulfilled until the feelings faded. He had undergone this cycle before, Enjolras being the closest to disrupting it. Though of course, Grantaire did not love him, and Enjolras was equally unreachable. He was just far closer, and had much more opportunity to cause Grantaire pain. 

“I do not think so, no. Love is not worshipping someone upon a pedestal, it is looking at one another as equals. The bravery to cross that divide, not build one.” Enjolras said in a quiet refusal of Grantaire’s logic. Grantaire startled at a gentle grip on his wrist, pulling himself back upright gracelessly. “You were drifting downstream.” Enjolras explained, releasing him. 

Grantaire nodded silently, swimming back a few paces from where Enjolras traded between balancing his toes on the rocks below and letting his hands work as support. He had submerged himself at some point, it would seem, as his hair had been wetted down to his scalp, save where it was long enough to drift with him in the water. Grantaire could see a few drops hanging from Enjolras’s eyelashes, but as soon as Enjolras’s eyes flicked to his he looked away.

“I have never heard reciprocation being necessary for love to be classified so.” Grantaire said. Enjolras had no response, but his face turned thoughtful at the words. 

Enjolras would have an idealist’s view of love, where it was unfathomable as something that was unbalanced, unrequited. His description had no room for the longing that characterized Grantaire’s past. Grantaire wondered what great difference in experience they had for their difference in opinion. Enjolras had not mentioned holding anyone else close other than Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Certainly if Enjolras had loved he would think they knew him best of all, if it truly was this equal view he described. 

“For all we know Cosette returns his feelings. We may well have witnessed the spark of love at that very first meeting in the park. I am no authority on it.” Grantaire sunk himself so the water passed his lips, nearly drowning the words before he finished. Even he could not deny the pangs of jealousy he felt then, though he hoped to drown them as well. 

“Nor am I.” Enjolras admitted. It would be the closest they had ever come to compromise in an argument. 

The sound of large animals moving through water startled them both, as well as human voices with them. Grantaire looked up to see a herd of cattle being ushered over the shallower area above the waterfall. Farmers accompanied them as well, it would seem, as they could hear the voices. Grantaire had no sight of them, which hopefully meant they too went unseen. He and Enjolras did their best to quietly leave the water and slip into the shielding of some trees until they finished passing. 

He pressed his back to a tree, Enjolras doing similarly nearby. Their reputations had no need for further risk, and them being found nearly naked in a swimming hole that did not fall on either of their properties would not help matters. They had done their best to grab their clothing as they moved, and he hoped nothing had been left behind to catch their eye. He heard a strange noise from his side, and turned to look at the tree Enjolras had chosen to hide behind. 

Enjolras’s shirt had been made sheer by the water, but Grantaire was more distracted by his embarrassed smile, as if they were children nearly caught stealing desserts from the kitchen. He looked like he was suppressing laughter to not give their position away, back of his hand pressed against his mouth, which then brought Grantaire equally close to exposing them. They were left snickering in the shade like hooligans until the last of the voices started to fade. 

“Perhaps I have been a bad influence on you.” He said when it finally felt safe to speak again. 

“I take responsibility for my own actions.” Enjolras challenged. Grantaire chose not to fight him on it.

“I suppose that is our signal to return.” He said. “We should dress ourselves before we frighten any farmhands.” 

His shirt had been given enough opportunity to dry in the hot air that he would not ruin his waistcoat by shrugging it on, but he still winced slightly at the contact of fabrics. The boots were equally unpleasant to don, as he could not quite clear his feet of the remnants of forest floor. He would suffer during the walk home, but less so than if he attempted it barefoot. 

Enjolras was still struggling to tie his cravat when Grantaire finished, though he looked too proud to admit it. Grantaire supposed most men would take it as a point of pride that they never had to dress themselves, but it certainly seemed like the sort of thing that Enjolras would find unnecessarily shameful. To save them both the pain of struggling. Grantaire stepped forward and brushed his hands away, completing the knot easily. He had practiced tying it enough while drunk that he was sure he could tie a presentable one from any angle. He titled Enjolras’s chin slightly, just to observe and be sure. 

Only after he had completed the action did Grantaire realize the liberty he had just taken, hands freezing where they were at Enjolras’s neck. He would hardly dare breathe, holding himself completely immobile while the single points of contact between their skin seemed to nearly burn him. He slowly retracted each finger, as if that small amount of added distance would spare him the panic. 

“Ah, looks good.” He finished weakly, stepping back and pulling his hands into a tight hold behind his back. Clearly they could not be trusted on their own. He made no effort to look at Enjolras’s face, unsure what he might find there. 

“Thank you, R.” Enjolras’s tone did not elaborate any further, but the use of the nickname convinced Grantaire that he was not immediately despised.

“We could probably part ways here, we’re very near to between our houses here.” Grantaire did his best to maintain casualness. It would not help him now to so evidently flee, though he was certain the fact that he would not look at Enjolras did not help his appearances of normal behavior. 

“I follow this path back?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire steeled himself enough to glance upwards and give a smile that he hoped did not look strained. To his great relief, he found Enjolras was not looking at him either. His expression was unreadable, and Grantaire could tell from his eyes that he was hardly focused on what Grantaire said. 

“Yes, then you take a left at the signpost for Kerryside.” Enjolras hummed unresponsively, which did not at all lower Grantaire’s level of concern. He overcompensated by roughly clapping Enjolras on the shoulder as a sign of near aggressive friendliness, before quickly making his departure. 

Grantaire did not make it far from Enjolras’s sight before the shame and embarrassment overtook him, heating his face in a way that had nothing to do with the warm evening. He paused, leaning against a tree to let his heart calm. He could not even guess at what he had been thinking, only that it could not have been much for him to allow himself to do something such as that. If he contained his words, then even his body would betray him. Was this to be Grantaire’s unchangeable downfall, as it certainly seemed some grand mistake would be inevitable. 

His breathing would not yet regulate itself, and Grantaire pressed his shoulder more firmly against the uneven bark as way of grounding. That would not happen. Not even he would be so stupid as to risk his life by mistake. Grantaire was a friend, and one who embraced close contact at that. He would think nothing of it, it was to Grantaire to make sure he thought nothing of it. He did not have the distance with Enjolras to safely pine, which meant it was the responsibility of his restraint, as terrifying a thought as that was. 

He felt himself grow calmer with the knowledge that Enjolras was moving further away. He returned to the support of his legs alone, and continued to increase the distance. He would be fine, he would not lose Enjolras as a friend, and he would not be imprisoned for sodomy. These stakes were high, but no higher than what Grantaire faced in every hour of his existence. He could manage this stress as well as he managed the rest, with alcohol and repression. He would keep the peace as well as he could, but he would not be forced to do so sober.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting sentimental there R
> 
> What would win, Enjolras's pre-set ideas that pining can't be considered love or one (1) tender touch.


	13. Observation and Exhibition

Grantaire watched the sky, a summer storm slowly darkening it with large, voluptuous clouds. Wind pulled at the trees, making them breathe out great sighs of leaves to join the sweeping curves of those grey overseers. It was not clear when the clouds would offer their half of the trade, pouring water back down as payment. There was some time yet, if Grantaire were to guess, as this was still in the early birth. He hoped they would not be caught by it in their walk. 

“I will admit, R, I am curious about where we are being taken.” Bossuet said. He had found some chestnut capsule along the road, prematurely fallen, and had used it as entertainment as they walked. It was sporadically kicked ahead at small intervals, the spiky green skin slowly gathering a layer of dust and bruises. The clattering sound would have been more satisfying with just the nut inside, but that was likely not grown enough to be worth uncovering. Grantaire watched its path absently. 

“We are going into town, that is not unusual.” Grantaire responded. He had been in a mood since that morning, and was not feeling particularly talkative. 

“That is true,” Joly acquiesced, “But I was under the impression that we were to meet people there. That is outside our usual routine.”

They were not going in as blind as they acted. Grantaire certainly did not make a habit of discussing the gatherings of the little political group at home, or in any of his life outside it, but he was sure Musichetta had long since discovered where Grantaire disappeared off to. It was not like Grantaire had anyone else to introduce them to in this town, not anyone they would mix well with, in any case. Grantaire did not feel like he needed nor wanted to explain further. 

“It looks close to rain.” He said, going for the easy distraction.

“Is it?” Joly asked, responding immediately. He stopped in the path, pulling out a journal to closely observe. 

Joly was long in the habit of checking his pulse and breathing during storms, and paused to do so now with fingers pressed against his wrist. He was convinced it was some change in the air that caused old injuries to echo as they did, and was dedicated to using observation to prove his theory. While perhaps not in the environment of academicians, Joly was endlessly devoted to research, filling out journal after journal of data and observations. All that stopped him now was the lack of writing material, though he quietly repeated numbers to memorize them for later. He would likely repeat the process when the storm was fully overhead. 

His friend had many pains that did not obey the schedule of weather, but one in his right hip always worsened with the coming of rain. As a young man, struggling with the intense taxation to cover the wars with France, Joly had been nearly forced into service as a field doctor. He often spoke favorably of all that he had learned from the other medics there, but Grantaire doubted even he could be as appreciative of the bullet that had caught him in the side and acquainted him with the less fashionable uses of a cane. The cheerful man had taken it in stride, from what Grantaire could see in the result, and used the cane as an easy extension of himself. A tool for emphasization and attack, it served many purposes. Grantaire had certainly been hit in the shins by it often enough. 

Grantaire often thought it was this friendly relationship with misfortune that had drawn Bossuet and Joly together. The story, as Grantaire had heard it, was that Joly had been passing through this town looking for one to settle in, only to witness several loose shingles slide off a nearby roof and shatter around the unsuspecting Bossuet. He was not seriously injured, but Joly had offered his services regardless. They soon found that Bossuet’s nature for laughing off all that came his way and Joly’s unrelenting optimistic outlook were more than compatible, and they got on rather insufferably well from that point on. They had only that one conversation before Bossuet offered his house as lodging, that spark of connection now becoming history. 

Grantaire was unsure how he had factored into this collection, but he enjoyed their ability to lighten his mood, and for some reason they found him humorous. Maybe it was just that they all responded to the serious and morbid with smiles and witty words. Either way, it was an easy exchange. 

“I would choose not to get wet, if we can.” Grantaire said, a gentle nudge along as the distraction was proving somewhat longer than he had planned.

“Hush you, I have finished now. We will be fine.” Joly tucked the booklet back away, ushering them back to movement. 

The inn of Grantaire’s first acquaintance with Bahorel and Feuilly had been deemed too volatile by the group at large, and they had chosen a less inhabited alternative. It was a rather unexciting place, even by the standards of this town, so Grantaire had previously used it more as a place for shameless day drinking and wallowing in isolation. He would not have anticipated it being a site of socialization for him, but as he was continuously shown, his anticipations were not very accurate with outliers like Enjolras throwing them to chaos.

At first glance, the place was as inactive as it always was. Only one or two patrons could be seen from the entryway, and a number of those figures seemed to be in some state of unconsciousness. It was the sound that betrayed them, voices seeming to reach great volume in the silent space and drawing Grantaire and his fellows to a previously unseen back room. There they found all the activity the greater area had been lacking, with the figures engaging in energetic discussion. Marius was missing, but that was not entirely unusual at this point. 

“Not everyone is here yet.” Grantaire said. It was not out of fear that his friends would be underwhelmed, as even one of this group would be enough to do so. 

Combeferre looked up at the sound of his voice, giving him a smile from where he stood at Enjolras’s side. Enjolras did not tear his attention from the pages in front of him, but Grantaire was used to the nonreaction. The only time Enjolras would pay him any notice was if Grantaire actively interjected himself. Even newcomers would only receive a greeting at the end of a meeting, Grantaire guessed. Enjolras’s focus was too great. 

“Grantaire! And you brought friends.” Courfeyrac noted, having already appeared in front of him. Grantaire set about making introductions.

He had wondered how his friends would react to Courfeyrac. He was the one that most visibly displayed his class, dressed finely and every articulation painting him as a resident of London’s higher community. As charming as he was, Grantaire had been unsure if he could connect as easily to those of different standing. These fears had been in vain, it was soon seen, as he needed only address them before the tension left and his spell was cast. Soon, they were all laughing. 

A friendly blow hit Grantaire between the shoulders, knocking some of his air away. A common heralding of Bahorel’s arrival. He righted himself to face his newly entered companion, eyes immediately assaulted by whatever bright crime against society Bahorel had decided to wear today. Even in the confines of poverty, he had an eye for harsh colors, and would often take in whatever was tossed away or had failed to sell at its intended price. If his size had not been enough to spot him in a crowd by, his unexpected way of dressing would. 

Bahorel had led an interesting life, as he had confided to Grantaire eventually. A son of some standing destined to be a lawyer, disowned when he refused to comply with a suitably dignified lifestyle and left to wander. He assured that his colorful taste was not something acquired through travel, though, as it was something genuine to him long before. 

“Do you miss your family?” Grantaire had asked then, perhaps insensitively. 

“I have found a better one.” Bahorel had answered, eyes finding Feuilly where he was getting drinks across the room. His voice held enough conviction that Grantaire felt no need to push further. 

He wondered what it felt like, to have the bravery that Bahorel did. To survive a loss like that and come out better for it. Grantaire did not think he would have the strength to simply pick himself up and continue on. As little as he cared for his family or they cared for him, what else did he have? He had no useful trade, what would support him if he were to be cut off? These were thoughts he had been less successful at repressing in the last few months, though they were never said aloud. They were still buried too deep for that. 

“I have news from Canada.” Feuilly said, bringing Grantaire back to the present as he moved past with a letter. He too had become much more familiar, but still remained a serious countenance, particularly in this environment. 

“Canada?” He looked to Bahorel in confusion. 

“After the collapse of the provisional government in Glasgow, any of the revolutionaries not already imprisoned fled to Canada. Many were doing their best to expose the spy network within the committees, but were overwhelmed. Feuilly had fellows there, and has been waiting to hear who escaped and what they know.” Bahorel explained. Grantaire nodded. He had known some of this context, if not the details of escape plans. 

“They have lost all their leaders to the horizon, prisons, or the noose.” Grantaire observed. “Do they have any hope left?” 

Scotland was a fighter who had just lost it’s fists. The heart may still be beating in the people, but what blows could they make? Cynic or not, Grantaire could not be the only one to realize it. From the tense line in Feuilly’s shoulders as he explained the letter’s contents, and the pinch in Bahorel’s expression as he worried for his friend, he did not think he was. The vision of a shared upheaval was in danger of fading, even if they were all too stubborn to lose faith in this country. 

“New leaders, new coalitions could always be formed.” Bahorel said. “Many of those men sit in prison awaiting trial. Their defeat is not absolute.” Grantaire gave a noncommittal sound of response. The loss had been in April, if he remembered correctly. There had certainly been no quick efforts to regroup. 

Bahorel was called over, and Grantaire lost him to the discussions as well. He went to get a drink and settled on the fringes. They had new information, new audience members, so it would take longer for everyone to settle. He would not be unaccompanied for long, he knew. It was not so dramatic as pairing off, but there would always be someone not actively engaged in the conversations. He would be there when they had nothing to contribute. 

Enjolras would never be the outlier, of course. Every meeting he attended seemed to emphasize this point. If this were a painting before him, there would be no way to orient it so that Enjolras was not at its center. His fingers nearly twitched to sketch his vision, to use the classical triangle composition with Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac made into the trinity. Enjolras very nearly had a halo effect as well, pale hair reflecting the candlelight in a way that made him the brightest thing in the room. His painting style would be well suited to the shadows and warm tones, but he did not think he could ever capture the energy before him. 

He really did seem to glow, Grantaire thought. Not only was he attractive in the human sense, but he could be considered ethereal as well. It was as if he really was being of light, on some other plane than him. How much Enjolras would hate to hear him say it, but Grantaire could not help the feeling. He was a man, one with messy hair and warm skin, but the very fact that Grantaire had gotten close enough to confirm those details seemed unrealistic to him. All his memories of Enjolras looking back, looking at, as if Grantaire was worthy of the attention, how was he to know they were not figments of his imagination? What right did he have to even be in Enjolras’s presence? They had only come into each other’s lives out of coincidence, convenience. If Enjolras were free to leave, he would just as soon be out of it. 

In an odd change of thought, he wondered what Enjorlas would be like as a lover. The sort of devotion that he held for his cause and country, would he give that to any specific person, or only ever “the people?” Enjolras seemed the type that would possess love of the epic poetry kind, to have passions worthy of tragedies and romances, but he equally seemed the sort to never think of himself long enough to allow that kind of distraction. Grantaire did not think him capable of doing or feeling anything to an extent less than the extreme, the only issue was which direction he would take that in. He could only stare, thoughtful, and wonder what kind of person would be capable of finding that answer. His chest twinged at the thought. 

“Grantaire?” He startled, drawn out of his spiralling thoughts by Combeferre. It seemed like he had been trying to get Grantaire’s attention for some time, having already sat down beside him.

“Forgive me,” He said weakly. “I was distracted.” 

Grantaire had been more frequently distracted as of late, eyes catching on Enjolras to greater frequency. He had lost thoughts, even words to it if he happened to do so while speaking. Enjolras had teased it for him once or twice, Grantaire using the guise of lack of sleep. Clearly he had grown too comfortable in his gazing, if he was stupid enough to be caught in it now. Not only had he done it publicly, but he had done it around many smart people who knew his manner, his name, and where he lived. 

His stomach was cold and unsteady, nearly gripping the bottle neck in his hand hard enough to break it. Combefere looked like he was about to speak, and Grantaire could not help but flinch slightly at the very idea. There must have been something in his expression that betrayed his panic, because Combeferre instead closed his mouth and looked away into the circle before them. His face was controlled, but not cold, though Grantaire was hardly comforted by that profile alone. He took the relief that came with Combeferre’s knowing gaze being turned away in what was certainly an intentional move, though he was unsure if he preferred silence or questions. 

“I came over to mention my surprise that you, out of all of us, was working as a recruiter.” His tone was forcefully light, setting up Grantaire’s favorite escape of humor. Grantaire tried to follow his lead. 

“I had to provide some reason for you all to keep me around.” He said, voice sounding false and rough. 

Combeferre’s face pinched, due to how much such statements from Grantaire irked him, surely, but the change sent Grantaire’s pulse to erratic new heights regardless. His companion eased the expression just as quickly, realizing this was not the time to voice protests, but Grantaire was still rigid. He downed a considerable amount of the bottle in his hand, trying to ignore how it was shaking. 

He did not think Combeferre the type of man to blackmail him, and he held such strong opinions about policing and prison reform that he did not think he would wish to send anyone into that system. There were informal methods certainly, he could tell people, he could tell Enjolras. Grantaire wouldn’t even consider him wrong for it. He wasn’t a danger to Enjolras, but what was a friend to think? Grantaire could not have guessed what he looked like before Combeferre interrupted him, but he doubted the want was fully disguised. How was he to know anyone else hadn’t observed similarly? What a fool he was. 

“People are often mesmerized by Enjolras.” Combeferre said, causing Grantaire to flinch again. It seemed he didn’t even need to look at Grantaire to read his thoughts. “It is why we put him in front of crowds. No one would think much of it.” Grantaire had betrayed himself more in the reaction than the action, or so he heard. 

“You did.” Grantaire said. They were both speaking too quietly to be noticed by the rest. He almost wanted to ask what conclusion Combeferre had come to. Both he and Enjolras seemed to so often understand Grantaire better than himself, perhaps Combeferre understood his feelings even more than him. Still, Grantaire did not think he could survive them being said aloud. 

They spent a moment in silence, Grantaire’s eyes fixed on the pattern of weaving that had made up the fabric of his pants. It was easier to look at than Combeferre beside him, or Enjolras before. 

“You have nothing to fear from me.” Combeffere said eventually, as if it had taken him that long to formulate his response. Grantaire tried, very desperately, to believe him. His rationality was not at its highest quality. 

“What caused these serious faces?” Courfeyrac asked, approaching them to place a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. He looked between them both curiously, and Grantaire felt nearly ready to panic again. 

“We were simply discussing a rather sad poem. It is nothing to worry over.” Combeferre answered easily, placing his hand over Courfeyrac’s with a smile. 

Grantaire recognized the gesture for what it was. Combeferre, like Enjolras, did not enjoy lying. One would not guess him out of practice, sounding too unassuming to question, and Courfeyrac seemed to be convinced by it. Grantaire, on an impulse, took the cup loosely held in Courfeyrac’s hand and downed it.

“What a poem it must have been.” Courfeyrac said, having watched Grantaire’s action. “‘Ferre, you must read it to me sometime.”

“You would fall asleep.” Combeferre said, with the sort of fond exhaustion that said it was a common occurrence. 

“Then you should take the great compliment to the soothing abilities of your voice.” Courfeyrac turned his attention back to Grantaire. “Thank you for bringing your friends. Apologies for stealing them from you.” 

“It is no issue.” His voice did not come out at first. He was not looking at Courfeyrac to see if he responded with any suspicion. The poem excuse was not that strong. 

“Ah, but I am to offend again.” Courfeyrac said, no indication of judgement in his tone, but Grantaire still feared it. “May I take Combeferre away as well?” 

Grantaire gestured his answer, and Courfeyrac quickly followed through in pulling Combeferre away. He hoped it was not to pester Combeferre with questions about their interaction, but he did not think Courfeyrac likely to without such things until hidden. By all appearances, he needed him as defense in some argument with Joly and Bahorel, an already unexpected combination. Grantaire tried to let the visual evidence calm him. As far as he saw, Combeferre made no move to speak to Enjolras. 

Drink provided a better distraction, and soon he had downed a considerable enough amount to notice the effects. Every light had a watery effect to it, and his energy for conversation returned. He distracted whoever was closest to him, avoided Combeferre as best he could, and soon got others to join him in a state of inebriation. When the rain started to fall, they all resolved to stay later and attempt to wait it out, resulting in an increasingly rowdy atmosphere. He was sure Enjolras did not appreciate the derailment, but there was only so long one could discuss such unhappy subjects. He clearly was not the only one looking to avoid it for a time. 

At some point, he decided to stumble up to where Enjolras remained serious and sober, rereading the letter that Feuilly had brought. That had reminded Grantaire of his own delivery, and he leaned against the same table with his arms crossed. 

“Enjolras.” He called, to no response. “Enjolras.” He tried again. 

The second time Grantaire had definitely been heard, but Enjolras still gave him no acknowledgement. He was mad at him again, Grantaire realized, for his disruption. Grantaire thought that rather unfair, he had not forced anyone to drink, but when a lighter mood was needed they had all joined him willingly. If discussions of politics had fallen out in favor of social conversation, he was hardly at fault. 

“Enjolras.” He said yet again. 

“What do you want, Grantaire.” Enjolras answered, finally turning to him. The odd feeling of Enjolras’s unwavering gaze manifested like a weight pressing against Grantaire’s chest, stuttering on his inhale even as he met Enjolras’s eyes evenly. It was hard to describe the feeling of having the sort of intense focus Enjolras possessed directed at him, only that it was a great deal.

“I have something for you.” He said, looking away. The folded paper was pulled from its protective place in his coat. “Just like old times.” His voice held exaggerated nostalgia as he handed the letter over. 

“From Prouvaire.” Enjolras observed. “Thank you.” 

He could tell Enjolras had meant it as a dismissal, but Grantaire did not feel like leaving quite yet. He instead moved to lean alongside Enjolras’s shoulder, observing the papers spread out in front of him. Most appeared to be legal documents, far beyond Grantaire’s understanding. He used the pad of his middle finger to move them about.

“I was talking to Combeferre a moment ago.” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire immediately pulled himself a step away, retreating as a cold feeling overtook him. Had he been told already? When had Combeferre even spoken with him? How had he managed to make yet another mistake? What was wrong with him tonight, to expose himself so readily? He felt ill, swaying in a way that had little to do with the last of his swallowed drinks. At this rate, he would be dead by afternoon tomorrow. Enjolras continued on, unobservant and oblivious to Grantaire’s repeated panic. 

“I had not realized the two newcomers were brought by you. These meetings are not intended as a social event.” 

Grantaire tried and failed to regulate his breathing. It was his reaction that had exposed him to Combeferre, he would not repeat the process. He tried to step back, to be out of Enjolras’s sight when he spoke at least, but Enjolras only followed him. He did his best to school his expression, wishing now that he had not loosened himself with wine. 

“You can speak to them, that is not what they are here for.” So Combeferre had not told Enjolras, either. At least not yet. Grantaire’s heart still refused to relax, having taken too many shocks in the last few hours. 

“What are you here for, then?” Enjolras asked, frustration still evident. 

“You.” Grantaire answered honestly, without hesitation. Damn Enjolras and his questions, all he could do was find a compatible excuse. He swayed back over to tap the letter in Enjolras’s hands. “I am the mail carrier still, am I not? This is proof that I still serve that role dutifully.” 

It was clear Enjolras did not take him seriously, still busy being unhappy with the result of the meeting. He finally turned away, fingers combing hair out of his face. Grantaire was momentarily entranced, hit with the desire to go through that movement with his own hand, but tore himself away just as quickly. Enjolras, from what Grantaire could see, took no notice of his rapid departure. Combeferre, however, did, and caught him in the second doorway. 

“I will not tell him.” He said, a hand holding Grantaire fast by the arm to halt his fleeing. Grantaire would easily admit that was what he was doing. “It would have been better for me to say before, but I was too surprised. Like I had said, you have nothing to fear from me.” He could see Courfeyrac looking at them again from the corner of his eye, the man having left the back room in pursuit of Combeferre’s unsubtle efforts. Grantaire could only hope no one else had grown curious. 

“Why would I have anything to fear?” Grantaire asked with an air of hysteria. He was unsure if it was an unintelligent, drunken attempt at confusion, a threat for Combeferre to stay silent, or a challenge for him to voice it aloud, to put into words what Grantaire was still too afraid to even articulate in his thoughts. 

Combeferre reacted to none of the options. He instead released Grantaire’s arm silently with a nearly sad look in his eyes. The last thing Grantaire wished for was pity, and he roughly brushed past him into the rain. He should have taken waking up in a poor mood as a sign, as it had only gotten worse for him since the second he left his bed. Tomorrow he would not bother. 

The cool rain was a less than welcome awakening back to sobriety, but Grantaire would take it over the visibility of the rest of the inn. Would Combeferre feed another lie to Courfeyrac to appease his interest? Or would he push "Ferre" into confession. Perhaps Combeferre had some trained immunity to them, or they all already knew each other too well to even need it. Grantaire’s stomach pitched again, and with the addition of alcohol he had difficulty containing its instability. 

Grantaire waited there, allowing himself to thoroughly soak through before it began to lighten and Joly and Bossuet came to find him. Joly threw a near fit at the state of him, threatening bedrest to avoid illness, like Grantaire would not consider it a reward after tonight. Being confined meant he only had himself to trouble, and as much a hell as it would put him through, he was less likely to be killed for it. 

Quickly enough they noticed the odd vacancy in his eyes, committed to escorting him home. No goodbyes were said, under the assumption that they would be reunited soon enough. He was glad his friends had enjoyed themselves, but was sorry that Musichetta would have to be their listening ear, as he did not have the energy for it. He instead walked in silence, letting them speak quietly to each other. He tried to kick a rock like the chestnut from before, but missed it with a rather embarrassing margin of error. At least it was dark enough that only he had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I do have a story plan, but I can't tell you guys how many times individual chapters go in completely different directions than anticipated. Like it still fits the story so its fine, but Combeferre knows now?? Not on the schedule but sure why not. Ferre for best supporting actor. 
> 
> Probably needs some editing, not used to juggling so many speaking characters in one scene. 
> 
> Between either this chapter and the next or the one after, there's going to be around a week gap. I'm not dead and I haven't given up on this monster, but I won't have a lot of wifi/time so writing is probably going to pause


	14. Burn the Candle at Both Ends

Grantaire was knocking at a door. A harsh, repetitive motion that as of yet yielded no result but the dull thumps that echoed somewhere on the other side. He had no memory of having made his way there, nor which door he was even plaguing, only that the heel of his palm hurt from continuously colliding with it. He could switch hands, he realized, but that would involve releasing the bottle from his other. As he was fairly certain it had long since merged with the skin there and was now an added part of his arm, removal seemed unlikely. The only movements allowed to it were to and from his mouth.

He swayed, placing his forehead against the back of his hand. It stopped his knocking efforts, as he was distracted temporarily by the temperature and the pressure against it. Ragged, uneven breaths disguised the shaking of his fingers, though poorly. He was fairly certain he saw a frightened looking servant peer at him from a nearby window before disappearing, but his eyes were more focused on the wood directly in front of them to be sure. He wondered if they would resolve to leave him out here until he departed, or if they would fetch Enjolras. 

Enjolras. He was at Enjolras’s house. Well, not his, as Enjolras had told him once that he did not truly award any building that title, but where he was forced to stay. He laughed against the door, though there was nothing funny in his thoughts. This had not been his intended location, in fact it was among the last places he would wish to be in his state. How he had so severely misplaced himself he did not know, only that his feet were traitors both for carrying him here and for not taking him away immediately. He did not need Enjolras’s disapproval at his drunken state, not along with everything else. 

There was sound behind the door, and Grantaire stumbled back just in time to avoid issue with its opening. Enjolras was behind, nightshirt tucked sloppily into his trousers as if he had been woken and come down in a great rush. The horror society would feel to know Grantaire had been greeted like this. He laughed again, though it was mostly muffled by the bottle pressing back against his lips. A frightened looking maid hovered behind Enjolras, likely the one Grantaire had seen before, barely illuminated by the candle he held. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, confusion evident through the sleepy mask still covering his face. Grantaire’s eyes were too hazy to track the movements of Enjolras’s own, but he could tell when he finished taking in the sight before him. “What is wrong?” 

Questions. Questions already. For once Grantaire could not formulate any words as response, his throat caught on some tearful blockage. His body of course answered for him, because even in silence he could not avoid giving Enjolras whatever he asked for. 

Grantaire had no energy to waste on disguising his expression, so he watched Enjolras carefully observe whatever it showed in silence, before dismissing the servant and taking Grantaire by the arm to bring him inside. Grantaire’s gait was uneven, making it difficult for Enjolras to maintain balance of himself and the candle he held. There was a trail of hot wax left behind them, and Grantaire could only hope none of it fell on Enjolras’s hand. 

He was deposited onto something, though he did not have enough spacial awareness to ascertain what, and Enjolras moved about the room lighting as many candles as he could. Most of the staff must have been dismissed after his parents left, Grantaire thought absently. He had certainly seen less of them, and otherwise Enjolras would not be the one left to this job. He closed his eyes, the added light seeming to make the room spin, even if it was still dark enough to hardly see by. He imagined even in his seated position he was swaying somewhat. The bottle in his hand did less than ground him. 

Hands on his knees made him open his eyes once again, doing his best to focus on the figure now crouched in front of him. He was doubled somewhat, making Grantaire instead feel as if he were before an audience. Enjolras was tall enough that this hardly put Grantaire any higher, but it did give Enjolras a better view of his bowed head. Grantaire made no effort to turn away or hide himself, trapped in Enjolras’s gaze as he was. 

“Grantaire, are you crying?” He asked.

“My father’s wife has given birth to a son.” Grantaire replied. 

Grantaire’s throat had been made raw by the effort it took for those words to be said, so he let them stand alone in the quiet room. He could see Enjolras struggle with his meaning. His hair was loose around him, falling like a disorganized veil down his neck. His collarbone was fully exposed, his nightshirt not anywhere near polite clothing. He had wondered, when Enjolras had seen him less than dressed that first time, how he would have reacted in reverse. He had not let himself answer it then, and it had now only become a more dangerous question. Grantaire recognized faintly that they had returned to Enjolras’s bedroom. 

“I had not realized she was expecting. Did the birth not go well?” How good of Enjolras to worry for a woman he had not met. Had Grantaire been in another situation, he would like to think he would feel similarly. 

“It went as well as that horror of nature can.” Grantaire answered, still haunted by the echoing screams of agony. The next words were said casually, perhaps as a method for Grantaire to be able to say them at all. “The result, of course, will be my disownment.” 

He could see how this too was a confusing progression for Enjolras, brow pinched and the small flames about the room dancing in dark eyes. Perhaps Grantaire was being poor in his explanation, as it seemed so obvious to him as to not need one. Even with his lack of understanding, Enjolras’s hands tightened on his trousers in what Grantaire knew to be a protective response. 

“You have been disowned?” 

Hearing it voiced aloud by someone other than him worsened the grip around his lungs, and he took a difficult inhale paired with the rapid fluttering of his eyes to keep himself from collapsing inward. Enjolras sounded so ready to go to battle on Grantaire’s behalf, but he could hardly take comfort in it. The fingers still provided a warm grip on Grantaire’s knees, and Grantaire took a deep drink from his bottle as distraction. Soon it would be fully exhausted, the liquid trading its position for the tumultuous sea of Grantaire’s stomach. 

“Who is to blame him?” Grantaire asked. His eyes stung still, blinking having achieved nothing, and he wiped at them furiously while trying to maintain an insincere smile. “What kind of heir am I, in any sense. I have no mind for the management of property, nor of carrying the family name. I waste my time on artistic pursuits of no income, I ruin my reputation further with my every action. He has the chance at replacement, why would he not take it?” 

“So you have not been.” Enjolras still looked to be having difficulty with Grantaire’s rushed progression, but he had noticed the hypothetical tone.

“I will be.” Grantaire insisted. He exhaled into his hand, which had not yet left contact with his face. “I fled after they announced its sex, but I have no doubt of the conversation I will return to.” 

Enjolras, though an equally disobedient son in the eyes of his parents, was an only child. There was a great deal more he could likely get away with before they would ever consider passing on the inheritance to a distant cousin instead of him. Many men had taken advantage of such a position, making it then an excuse to take advantage of such liberties. Grantaire too had held that security, his sister unable to inherit, until tonight. 

“Has he threatened this before?” Enjolras asked. There was obvious effort in his expression towards restraint, attempting to understand the situation before letting himself fully react to it. Combeferre’s influence, no doubt. “There is a chance your father may not, such a drastic action-”

“He did not need to speak it aloud.” How rarely his father spoke to him under normal circumstance, it would hardly be an adjustment to pretend Grantaire was a stranger rather than his own son. Perhaps that was what he had been training for all these years.

Grantaire pressed his hand more sharply against his forehead, a sudden wave of queasiness overcoming him. It would do no good to make things harder for Enjolras with sick than he already had by disrupting his sleep. He had intended to go to town, to speak with Bahorel on his experiences and perhaps drown himself in wine in good company. What had motivated him to turn off so early he could not know. How used to this building he had become, to more instinctually walk here than the pubs and inns he had for much longer called comfort. 

“Should they throw you out, you can stay here.” Enjolras eerily offered, as i he had caught the final words of Grantaire’s thoughts and the mention of this property. Somehow he had missed the rest of the sentiment. “There are plenty of rooms.” 

Grantaire stood up somewhat abruptly, pausing only to sway before he moved into the center of the room. Enjolras stood up behind him, following cautiously like he was unsure what Grantaire would do if provoked. This had been the most dramatic reaction from him so far, he supposed. Other than bitter laughs and long swallows of drink, which weren’t all together unusual. 

“I am not a charity, nor one of your causes.” Grantaire said. 

“No, you are my friend.” 

Enjolras said it like it was a defense. Perhaps it was, since Grantaire seemed so dedicated to destroying that position. How often did his thoughts betray him, as well as his actions and words? He could taunt Enjolras in meetings, stare and expose himself to their friends. While he had not yet been turned in to Enjolras or authorities, it had little impact on the amount of guilt Grantaire held. 

“I am hardly worthy of being called so.” He said hollowly. “If you have regrets, I would use this opportunity. If you both cut me off in one night, perhaps the blow will be evenly balanced.”

The bottle was taken from his hand and placed elsewhere. 

“R?” Enjolras asked quietly, and, like a puppet with its strings cut, Grantaire collapsed forward.

With his face pressed into the shoulder of Enjolras’s shirt, he let himself break back down into open tears. Instead of pulling back, Enjolras’s hands took up supportive positions around Grantaire’s waist and behind his head, folding around him protectively as they swayed in the open space of the bedroom floor. The convulsions of Grantaire’s body had to shake Enjolras as well, but he held as steady as he could manage, with calming fingers working through Grantaire’s hair.

Had Grantaire been any more lucid, he likely would have fled from what had to be the most intimate scene of his entire life. It was unfair, truly, that Enjolras saw such vulnerability from him, as no actual lover ever had. Enjolras was far too indulgent, letting Grantaire cling to him in complete silence, his dark curls pressed against Enjolras’s chin. If he knew better, Grantaire would be pushed away immediately. He would get rid of him, just as Grantaire’s family had. How different would any of their lives be for it, truly? His father had found a replacement, and Enjolras had the others. He was hardly an important role.

“We should sit back down again.” Enjolras quietly said, stepping back just enough to guide him. 

Grantaire let himself be moved, eyes vacant and swollen. He was sure looked completely wild, face and hair a mess, and this time he truly did wish to hide. Even with them both on the bed, Enjolras kept a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder as a tether, as if sensing this instinct from him and refusing to allow escape until all things had been resolved. He vaguely attempted to shrug the grip off, but did not try hard enough to have any success. 

“I am not the best at providing comfort.” Enjolras admitted. “I am unsure what to say.” 

“It was not you I had planned to go to with these troubles.” Grantaire weakly laughed again, but Enjolras did not join him. Rather he looked hurt by his words, despite his own claim of discomfort, the shadows on his face increasing with unhappy wrinkles. Grantaire corrected himself. “I am not saying I did not think you could and would help me. I know you would. I also know this is hardly worthy of your attention.” 

“What does that mean, Grantaire?” Clearly this correction had been a further misstep, judging by the sudden coldness in his voice. It was enough to pull Grantaire back to some presence of mind, following quickly with justification. 

“Bahorel understands my circumstance, I thought it would be better to go to him than-”

“No, what did you mean by worthy? You keep saying it.” 

Enjolras’s eyes were stern, and Grantaire knew full well he would not allow alcohol as an excuse. He knew Grantaire to be an eloquent enough drunk, and that his opinions rarely differed between the states of sobriety and inebriation. He looked prepared to lecture, which immediately soured Grantaire’s disposition. 

“Grantaire, I am not a measure of anything’s value, that is too much responsibility to place on me. I am a subjective man just as any other.”

How convenient for Enjolras to think of himself so now. How frequently did he take the position of morality, assume the idea justice that he held was the correct one? Idealists and revolutionaries required such great faith in themselves, something Grantaire would never understand. And further, what right did Enjolras have to be angry at Grantaire for viewing him in that exalted way? Enjolras could put himself in this high position, but it was unfair for Grantaire to do the same to him? If he could not have that confidence in himself, could he not have it in someone else? He would rather worship this man than the church’s God. 

“You want to save the entire world, but even you understand delegating focus-” Enjolras cut him off again. 

“You said yourself you were not a cause. You do not need to, to earn a place in my attention like it is some competition.” Grantaire hardly agreed, but Enjolras was insistent, disorganized even in his speech. “What happens to my friends matters just as much to me.”

The candlelight hurt his eyes, though it was easier to look at than Enjolras. These were things he did not know how to resolve, or even if they could be. Grantaire had no good response. Enjolras was many things, but uncaring had never been one. He showed his empathy far easier for the great unknown numbers, but that didn’t mean he held none for the people close to him. Grantaire had seen as much again and again. His deep connection to Combeferre and Courfeyrac was of course the greatest example.

Combeferre provided a bitter reminder. He had said nothing to Enjolras, as promised, and he was fairly certain it had been kept from Courfeyrac as well, though the man had given him frequent strange looks in his subsequent avoidance of their mutual friend. Combeferre was simply too close to Enjolras, too close to all of them. It was an instability, as Grantaire had already been found out against his will once it felt like it could too easily spread or happen again. This was not Combeferre’s fault, but it must seem Grantaire treated it that way in his sudden evasion. In reality he just refused to make a discussion of it, as any member of this trio would certainly attempt. 

“I am doing poorly in the way of comfort.” Enjolras admitted after some moments had passed and his frustration had lessened. He had come back to himself, and now looked regretful for having let his annoyance guide their conversation now. Grantaire disliked the look he held, thinking it somewhere close to pity. 

The tears had stopped falling, but they had made great stains across Grantaire’s face and left his eyes empty and unfocused. He had mussed Enjolras’s shirt, so they were very nearly a pair in their disarray. The hand that was not holding onto Grantaire fidgeted at the edge of his vision, a miniscule illustration of Enjolras’s desire to do something, though he was unable to manifest what. 

“I could send for someone?” He asked. Grantaire felt sickened at the edge of desperation in his tone. Enjolras, as he so often did when he found himself incapable of filling a role, turned to his lieutenants. “What of Combeferre? You two have grown close.” 

“No.” Grantaire was sure he flinched at the poorly timed suggestion. His refusal was perhaps too loud for the space, Enjolras’s eyes widening slightly at the outburst. If there were any servant hidden away attempting to listen in, it would certainly have startled them as well. To avoid suspicion in his dramatic reaction, Grantaire repeated himself more gently while turning his face away. It would be better now for his expression to go unread. “No, I have already bothered you at this hour. I would not cause anyone else the trouble.” 

“It is no trouble,” Enjolras, leaned forward, pursuing him. He had returned to gentleness, but still seemed dedicated to persuading Grantaire of new points. The bedsheets were a quiet symphony of sliding fabric as he shifted. “I only wish to help in some way.” 

Grantaire was a well spoken drunk, but that did not mean he was immune to alcohol’s bad influences. With Enjolras coming so close into his space, the setting, how was he to feel? Were Combeferre to see them now, perhaps he would be less confident in his trust of Grantaire, and whisk his friend away to safety. Grantaire had not planned any of the series of events that led them here, but even to him it seemed a suspicious organization. Enjolras continued to chase his gaze, which Grantaire continued to struggle to resist. He wanted Grantaire to look at him, to see sincerity there, for some godforsaken reason. 

So Enjolras wanted to be seen as a man, not a god. How was he to understand that Grantaire in his life had felt greater love towards men than he ever held for a heavenly figure? Is that how Enjolras was then asking to be viewed? Of course not. It was his oblivion and naivete that brought them here. If everything was to change after tonight, would Enjolras keep dead weight such as him in his life, or was this something final? Was this Grantaire’s chance to take some action, man to man as Enjolras wished, before he lost his standing with his family and his friends? If the betrayal was to be total, perhaps he should count himself among the traitors. 

Both his hand and eyes moved together in going to Enjolras’s face. His fingertips lightly caught the texture of Enjolras’s sleeves as it raised, coming to rest on the soft skin of Enjolras’s jaw. Having been so busy attempting to read Grantaire’s profile and downcast eyes, Enjolras’s own expression was now made stutteringly unreadable in his surprise. He gave no reaction, neither moving away nor speaking, but Grantaire could feel the workings of his throat as if he wanted to. Perhaps he was waiting for Grantaire, his stare expectant and unrelenting. 

At least when Grantaire had made the mistake of touching Enjolras’s face before, he had been distracted enough to not meet his eyes. They were both caught now, unsure of what was occurring, but not immobile. Even with only the movements of their breathing that small distance between was unstable, shrinking and expanding at minor intervals. Were either of them to intentionally move forward, it would close. Grantaire’s eyes fell ever so quickly to Enjolras’s lips, before sliding shut completely.

The press of their foreheads together was the only action Grantaire initiated, his hand having moved to the back of Enjolras’s neck as a gentle guide. He was a coward, and he was often cruel, but this was not something he would take from Enjolras. He could feel in the ways of men without acting like a beast, not even drunkenness would excuse something such as that. This once he would not fill the imagined expectations of him, his likely fabricated fears of Combeferre’s would go unconfirmed. Perhaps this proved Enjolras’s theory, that it never truly was the thoughts of others that motivated him. 

Grantaire kept his eyes tightly closed, his hold weak. Whatever reaction Enjolras might have had, he neither saw nor felt it, only knowing that he remained in that position with him. This could be seen as an act of fraternity, if one made extended and intimate. It was not impossible that this would be a goodbye, so he allowed himself much longer than he should have. Perhaps Enjolras made himself obedient because this was the help he thought Grantaire needed, some quiet, physical support. He said nothing, and the close contact did make it easier to match their breathing, Grantaire’s slowed, along with his heart. There were still tears that wished to push out from under his lashes, but he did not give them that freedom. 

“This is not something that can be fixed by you.” He said. Enjolras’s face twitched, likely tickled by the exhale accompanying the words. It was what needed to be said for Enjolras to lose his sense of obligation. “I must return home eventually and hear it confirmed, and that burden too I will bear alone.” 

Grantaire leaned back, opening his eyes once again. Enjolras, who it seemed had also closed his, was unprepared for this change and rocked forward ever so slightly before also shifting backwards. His motions were slow, as if he was coming out of sleep, and were paired with an uneven exhale. Perhaps he was tired enough that the brief moment of immobility had nearly returned him to dormancy. With his lids moving in that final act of wakefulness, Grantaire looked away at the hands he had now brought into his lap. A minor retreat, but all he could give himself. Enjolras remained impossible to shake off entirely.

“Let me offer what I can.” There was something odd in his voice, which barely became more than a whisper. “Stay here for the night, at least. It is late.” 

“You have no guest room prepared.” Grantaire protested. He was tired, energy having entirely left him, so he could already feel himself losing. 

“Stay here.” Enjolras repeated, though with a more specific meaning. 

Soon Grantaire would be a nobody in the eyes of the law, and who was to know how long until he was worse in the eyes of this group he had suddenly found so important to him. He may not share their ideologies, but he would not devalue their bonds because of it. He had lost a mother and sister he hardly knew to marriage and the grave, his career to his own mistakes, but he did not think anything would match the loss of everything so completely. The thought of it made him weak, far too weak to protest. 

Grantaire never said anything, but somehow Enjolras understood that he had won. With little care to the state of his clothes, Grantaire laid himself to rest as the lights behind his eyelids extinguished one by one. Had he removed his boots? He hardly knew, only that sleep was coming fast as his only escape until the dreaded hours of the morning returned him to this reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will let Enjolras react more openly eventually but give the boy a minute he's processing some important thoughts
> 
> I always feel like I'm making stuff like this happen too soon but like, the word count would disagree with me.


	15. A Beginning and an End Had Over Bedsheets

Grantaire woke just after the breaking of dawn. Enjolras’s room was in a different position to his own, and the unusual light was enough to pull him unhappily from his shallow sleep. There were not many hours to count towards his rest, and Grantaire’s body ached with the exhaustion and the lasting effects of his bottle. It was not a pleasant wakefulness, but it was a calm one, Grantaire’s emotions having long since exhausted themselves. 

He had slept like the dead, on his back and completely unmoved from the last position he remembered. This was not uncommon for him. As restless as he could be when awake, the fidgeting did for the most part go to rest when he did. It could be unpleasant when he was caught in an inbetween state, his body paralyzed but his mind agitated and wishing to use his movements as an outlet, but sleep usually came to him quickly, and that struggle was avoided. 

The slight rolling of his head informed him of Enjolras’s location, that small distance away that the size of the bed allowed. His face was nearly covered, sleeping on his stomach with a hand held up against his nose on the pillow. There was a quiet sound of breathing, Enjolras’s shoulder rising and falling with it to prove that he was indeed human, not some shimmering sylph made from the morning light. His own head was inclined towards Grantaire, but he showed no sign of wakefulness, expression relaxed. Grantaire observed for a moment, over the soft crests of the sheets, before getting up, pulling his shoes on, and leaving the room. He may have been loud enough to wake Enjolras, but he was gone far too fast for it to be of any matter.

By luck of his immobility, his clothes were not in any further disarray than he had left them the night before. A cravat was not a comfortable thing to sleep in, but in a blessing or curse it had not managed to throttle him in his sleep. He made small adjustments as he walked, knowing that he would never look dignified after a night spent like that one, but at least hoping to be no great affront to the light of day. 

Relying on the skills honed as a city wanderer, Grantaire used his unintentionally memorized map of the building to make his escape. It was a matter of chance that he saw no person on his path, and one he was grateful for. If the few servants Enjolras maintained did indeed report back to his parents, this one would be an odd story to tell. Grantaire had no wish to add any further detail to it. 

Would Enjolras be unhappy at his secretive departure? Most likely, Grantaire thought. He did feel akin to a thief stealing away, some confirmation of guilt in his quick leave, but Enjolras was logical. He would understand Grantaire’s need to return home. And Enjolras was the brave sort, so surely this immediate confrontation would make more sense to him than fleeing from one's problems. It was true that he was simply fleeing a different one now, but, well, what was life but switching from one problem to the next. Grantaire did not have the strength for another goodbye, nor did he trust his restraint any longer. He had let himself be too forward, gone too far, and could not bear to face Enjolras just then because of it. 

A mist still hugged the grass around him, not yet burned off by the rising sun and giving the appearance of fallen clouds over the farmland. It would be a beautiful morning, should the coming warmth be strong enough to ward off the crispness of the air. As it was, it pinched at Grantaire’s cheeks and nose. No great bother, but if he let himself focus on it there was no doubt he would find the experience unpleasant. He instead walked quickly, using the heat generated in his speed to distract himself. 

He remembered, once, that Jehan had told him a poet must always be in love. With someone, with the craft, with the world... Whatever it was, inspiration came from a kind of veneration, an enchantment that allowed them to see things in the way that allowed artistic interpretation and exaggeration. It was not the first time Grantaire had been told something similar, many saying much the same about painting. It was a shared sentiment, that creation came from seeing the beauty of everything, and that often came with the help of a muse. 

Grantaire himself had never had a muse of any kind. Though he had loved, it had been no great constant in his life. Perhaps that was why he had been so poor an artist, as he had never found something that brightened the world around him, made it more passionate, more fierce, or whatever it was he was meant to find. Grantaire was a cynic, he was naturally disinclined towards devotion. He loved like a coward, from a distance and with none of it exposed. The poets would have found him disappointing. 

Enjolras would understand devotion, his very existence was characterized by it. Was there anything he would not do for his cause? Grantaire did not think even his friends were held above that, but he did not doubt they too would have anything sacrificed for them that Enjolras could. He was the sort to make a hero of. Grantaire had never known the resolve to “do anything” for anything. It was different from desperation, he thought, though he could not articulate how. Grantaire only knew he had never felt anything of the kind. Or, at least, he had not until he met a man who’s single question Grantaire would follow like a command, who made this quiet town exciting, and who the thought of never seeing again nearly crippled him. 

Rude or not, he could not have been there when Enjolras woke. Would he even be capable of a convincing lie, if Enjolras did question the meaning of his actions? There were too many things that Grantaire would no longer be capable of ignoring after last night, and none of which he wanted Enjolras to pry from him. What ridiculous thoughts he had let his mind form, but they told him all that he needed to know. If this had not been so dangerously different, perhaps he would have recognized it earlier. Instead it took being asked to stay for Grantaire to realize that for the first time in his life, he felt willing to fight to do so. 

For someone who was very literally good in a fight, Grantaire was not foolish enough to think he fought for many things in his life. Perhaps if he had, he would still be in school, would have some ambition or guidance. But Grantaire found it was far easier to simply sit back, let things happen to him, good or bad, opportunities to pass and come as they would. He would try everything, but be consistent in nothing. Friendships came easily, or they did not. Only, with Enjolras, everything was so horribly, frustratingly different. 

In wording of a simple confession: Grantaire was in love with Enjolras. 

Enjolras would likely not consider it so, which was part of Grantaire’s agony. He knew Enjolras, in these short months they had become closer than some people Grantaire had known his entire life. Of that, he knew Enjolras felt similarly. He was no stranger, not someone Grantaire could easily distance himself from until the emotions abated, or simply enjoy from across the room. They were a significant part of each other’s lives, and that was nauseatingly dangerous. 

But perhaps that issue would soon be no longer, Grantaire thought as he continued to walk over faintly cacophonous stones. There was no guarantee of what would happen after this point. Grantaire may be thrown out. Perhaps he would join Bahorel and Feuilly in their travels, or take Enjolras up on his offer, as he knew the deeper parts of him wanted to. That would be no absolute solution, he knew, as it was only a matter of time before Enjolras managed to return to the city where he belonged. Joly and Bossuet could not house him on his father’s property, and he knew Jehan was not quite so well off as to support him. Where would Grantaire disappear to, then? Somewhere safe from Enjolras and the further mistakes he could make there, at least. 

His fast walking had its drawbacks, the greatest of which being how soon his house rose up before him. Early as it was, the second he came into view he knew it was likely that he was spotted. It was the sort of sense he had, of eyes looking out the windows. He hoped it was a welcome presence such as Musichetta, but it could just as easily not be. As resolute as he had been to getting this over with as quickly as possible, his gait stuttered just by the tree that he had so frequently taken refuge under. This was not something he was ready for. He did not think he would ever be. 

The servant’s door opened, exposing the figure of his father and fulfilling Grantaire’s most fearful expectations. The sight might have been humorous, the finely dressed man in such an informal place, but Grantaire was far too drained to take any pleasure from it. He only stood there, not calling out to Grantaire or speaking in any way, but he could understand well enough that he would not be able to wait any longer. Silently Grantaire restarted his forward progress, reaching the door and following his father when he turned away and led them inward. 

The final destination was his father’s study. A cramped, but well organized space, and certainly not where he often received company. There was not even a seat for it, and Grantaire was made to stand. His father took the chair behind the desk, carefully organizing the pages before him. Grantaire wondered if the suspense itself was a form of punishment, though he kept his expression blank. 

“Both mother and child are healthy. There has been no sign of further complications.” The man said eventually.

“Many blessings to them both.” Grantaire’s response was hollow, but not entirely insincere. He had no ill will towards them, after all. The papers were repositioned yet again, before his father carefully placed both hands in a laced position atop them.

“I think it would benefit us both to be direct.” Grantaire said nothing, which may have been unusual for him, but seemed to be what his father suspected would occur. He continued easily. “Things would have been far easier had your sister been a man, but as it stands you have the occupations and apathy of a second son, but the responsibilities of an heir. We well know that should you assume those responsibilities upon my death, your unsuitability would run this house and the family name into the ground.” 

Grantaire was still silent. What was he to say? His father was correct that this was something they both knew. The nail of his right thumb bit a small crescent into the nearest finger in his fist. There had been nothing said he had not expected to hear, but Grantaire still felt ill because of it. He did not think his voice would work, even if he did attempt to use it. 

“Your new brother provides an opportunity, of course, to prevent that coming to pass.”

“Of course.” The nail stung from where it dug deeper, but it kept Grantaire from sounding ragged. “Am I to take my leave then, to provide my dear brother with these opportunities?” His father sighed, eyes closing as well. 

“As impulsive and assumptive as ever. Your quick wit has convinced you that the fastest conclusion is always the correct one.” 

At this Grantaire paused. He had very nearly completed the script of the conversation in his mind, but this was an unplanned argument. What other conclusions were there to draw? Grantaire had thought he understood his father enough to be confident in his assumption. Where Grantaire had at least been steeled to stoicism before, he was sure the new uncertainty broke through in his expression.

“What do you mean?”

“I remember my University days well enough, after the behavior I am sure you both witnessed and partook in there you must recognize how much of a last resort disownment truly is.” Grantaire had. Bahorel was a seventh son, and hardly needed for any family legacy, but even his treatment was still highly unusual. “A drastic action such as that brings talk, and not the pleasant kind. The last thing we need is more attention drawn from speculation on your actions. Many, especially those of lower standing, would not understand the practicality.”

Grantaire was unsure he had ever heard his father speak so much as this. His words were slow and well articulated, as if to make sure Grantaire heard every single one. Despite the content of his speech, the tone kept Grantaire from feeling any calmer. It was as if he was standing on a frozen pond, and could hear the ice creaking below him, but did not see any cracks appearing. It no longer seemed he was likely to fall from his position, but there was still a threatening instability to it. He supposed his father never had favored the drastic, though could easily create misery without it. 

“Furthermore, my son is not yet two days old. Any decision of that kind would be preemptive.” 

There was a certain tenderness around the words “my son” but the general sentiment was a cold and calculating one. Grantaire decided he had much preferred the time his father had not cared to speak to him at all, and simply given silent disapproval or less silent remarks about his presentation. He had known of his father’s careful calculations of society and social importance, the very mathematics of his first introduction to the Enjolras family were proof of it, but this seemed inhumanly invested. To already plan around the babes’s potential death seemed nearly like speaking a curse into being, and though it hardly benefited Grantaire in any way he felt a flare of protectiveness. 

“So my position is pending, then?” He asked, as if challenging his father to continue explaining that logic. It was a strange thing that his flickering anger towards his father made his tone slightly more sure.

“I have no interest creating unnecessary ambiguity.” His father dismissed Grantaire yet again. “I will have it carefully detailed in my will that you are to inherit in name, and nothing else. You may stay here, but upon the event of your brother marrying you will be granted a stipend to return to some flat in London, if you wish. The management of this property will be under his supervision. You will have no children, so the ownership will pass on to his without issue.”

Had Grantaire not previously made his refusal to ever marry and start a family clear, that final condition may have seemed cruel. As it was, Grantaire did not think himself likely to violate it. He was given no opportunity to agree or refuse, knowing very well this was not an offer he had any space to debate. It was far better than anything he had hoped, but he had somehow lost more of his opinion for his father in the process. He knew this arrangement was not in any way organized out of affection towards him. 

“Let us go see him.” His father said, standing. 

“I am not sure-” He stopped at Grantaire’s side, silencing him with a look. 

“It is in your best interest to create as good a relationship as you can with him. What harm is there in starting early?” 

There was likely no protest Grantaire could have that his father would listen to in that moment, so he followed in uncharacteristic obedience, worn far down past the point of protest. Perhaps this was finally the severity of chastising needed to make Grantaire docile. He certainly felt worn out from it. 

Grantaire did not have much experience with infants. It was a period of time that women were secretive of. They would often disappear for the duration of their pregnancy, and the child themselves would rarely be seen in society until it had long reached the undisruptive ages. Grantaire himself had little memory of that stage of his life, and had no younger siblings to reference it from until now. He was unsure what he expected to find upon entering, but the small, pink thing with eyes screwed up against the light like a newborn puppy was not what he had anticipated. He peaked up briefly at Grantaire, before his face scrunched again either in disapproval at his environment or Grantaire specifically. Already taking after their father, it would seem. 

The child’s name was Jean, or would be, once he was officially christened so. He was given to Grantaire to hold briefly by the nursemaid. She was not someone Grantaire recognized, but he supposed it had not been a previously needed role in their household. Grantaire felt too overwhelmed, too numb to truly process the little human in his arms. Was he meant to feel some great sense of family? If not know, would he, on a day of less layered emotions? He did not think they had any space in all else he was feeling, so it was hard to know. Perhaps he and this boy would become great friends, make this home a happy one after his father’s passing. For now, all the child was capable of was fussing unhappily in the arms of whoever held him. 

Grantaire fled the house immediately after that, leaving the emotions around his new future behind with him. As long as it was away from his view, he could bury it just as he had buried all thoughts throughout the pregnancy. He would not be out on the streets, at least. It was his second exodus of the day, he realized, and it was not yet even afternoon. The question he had run towards had been answered, and while his position was no great one, he at least knew what the future held. He could not be so sure of his other area of concern. 

This time his feet took him resolutely past the Enjolras estate. He could not for the life of him explain the choice he made of destination, only that it felt like the only possible one. He certainly gave no look towards the back room as he climbed the stairs and found the room he was looking for. His knock did not have an immediate answer, but luckily one came soon enough.

“Grantaire!” Marius exclaimed in a pleased sort of surprise. 

“Ah.” Grantaire responded. It at least shocked him out of his state of numbness. “You were not who I expected.” Marius did not look at all offended by his frank response. He simply nodded, still in high spirits. 

“My roommates are currently downstairs with Mr. Enjolras, should we-”

To his defense, Grantaire was still rather severely hungover, but even in that context his reaction was dramatic. Despite the fact that he had been standing securely just moments before, he felt completely unbalanced and had to quickly grip the door frame as support. He could not add facing Enjolras, who was apparently just below his feet, to the list of things Grantaire had dealt with that morning. He already felt near to collapsing from exhaustion. 

The response frightened Marius, who immediately took Grantaire’s other arm to support him. He leaned over, observing Grantaire in concerned detail. He even put a hand up to see if Grantaire were feverish, an assumption that Grantaire rather appreciated as being different to the usual guess. Perhaps he looked pale and clammy enough that it seemed a more logical than plain drunkenness. 

“Are you alright? You should lay down on one of the beds if you have taken ill, I will send for someone-”

“No, no, it is not that sort of ailment.” Grantaire assured, making himself stand again. His legs still felt far too weak. “Though I am here for your doctor.” 

“Mr. Combeferre? Do you wish to go down and meet them?” Grantaire shook his head somewhat aggressively. He was already wondering if his voice was too audible through the floorboards, and if he should simply give up and leave while he could. Marius was curious, he could tell, but blissfully did not press further. “I will have him come back here. The other two much prefer the back room, they will not follow.” 

Marius watched to make sure Grantaire was safely sat on one of the beds before leaving, still not trusting him to be truthful on his state of health. As much as they teased him on his foolishness, he was a good and intelligent friend in the moments that he was not distracted by Cosette’s beauty. He felt very nearly bad that it was not Marius he had come to speak to, as maybe he did have some unforeseen wisdom to share.

“Pontmercy,” He called just before the door closed behind him. “How would you describe what you feel for Miss Fauchelevent?” Marius’s worried expression turned bright yet again. 

“It is like endless dark agony when we are apart, then a blinding euphoria when we are together again that erases all the suffering between.” Grantaire hummed in acknowledgement, though it was little help. Why must all those around him only consider love in the way of something reciprocated?

“I wish you both well.” He said, before Marius disappeared. 

He disliked waiting in the closed room. The isolation and muffled sounds all around only made Grantaire feel as if he had gone numb again, and none were clear enough for him to be sure who really was coming up and down the stairs, and if he was soon to be ambushed by Enjolras. Would he lecture him for leaving, or perhaps the liberties taken in his drunken state? In either case, Grantaire could not face it now. 

He completely tensed when the door did open, though all that followed was the suspicious face of Combeferre, as well as Marius behind him who made a quick departure at Grantaire’s reveal. Grantaire would need to do something very good for Marius after this, as he was exiled from his own room for Grantaire’s sake. Somehow Combeferre looked less surprised by this development. 

“This makes far more sense than Pontmercy’s strange excuse of asking me to look at a pustule with immediate urgency.” Combeferre said, eyebrows raising as he came into the room to sit by Grantaire. “Though, I will not say I would have predicted this either. It has been a while since we’ve spoken.”

“I know.” Grantaire said, looking at his hands. He had not really been sure of his intention in coming here, but there were things he could take this opportunity to say. “I was afraid, despite your promises. You did not deserve how I acted in response, you showed me great kindness and I responded by shunning you, as if that would help my situation.” 

“As rational as man may aspire to be, the exposure of one’s secrets, particularly those that provide a threat to one’s life, would make anyone defensive.” Combeferre still stared at the wall opposite of them, the grains in the wood providing decoration. Grantaire was only given a view of his profile, the sharp line of his nose and the glasses atop them. “I do not think you came here to make an apology.”

Combeferre was right, of course. He had simply needed someone to talk to, about any of it. To decrease the overwhelmed feeling that still refused to abate, to, to make it slow down in some way. He would have chosen Jehan in a heartbeat, but his friend was still a week out from his predicted arrival back to their town. Why had he not been free to travel sooner, at least to be for Grantaire’s benefit? Grantaire did not want to be alone, and he did not think even drink would be kind company now. 

“Many of my friends are working now, and I believe I needed someone with me. As protection from the bad decisions I may make if left unattended.” 

Unexpectedly honest, but Combeferre did not judge him for it. Grantaire had missed his calming presence, he realized, and with each moment that he did not recoil, did not blackmail, did not press for the context of his upset, Grantaire’s nerves decreased incrementally. He should have spoken to him long ago. Perhaps then he would not have gone to Enjolras that last night, and he would not have to face what he had since realized. 

He would have ended up there regardless, he knew, known it eventually. But still, there was comfort in imagining these alternate histories. 

“I mean this as best I can, but I would have thought you more likely to go to Enjolras than I.” A good guess, of course. Grantaire’s shoulder’s pinched in slightly, in some sort of protective gesture. 

“Oh, I did. Last night, at a very unseemly hour. That is part of the reason you must now ensure that I do not walk downstairs and drink this establishment dry.” 

Could he guess what had occured from Grantaire’s tone? That he had nearly kissed Enjolras, then shared his bed and vanished in the morning without a word? At best it looked as if he took advantage of Enjolras’s kindness and trust. Combeferre did not ask, so perhaps he really had understood it all. Was he disgusted by it, simply enduring the conversation out of politeness? Grantaire had already seen he could lie, as he had done it for Grantaire’s sake already. To protect him. How contradictory with all his guesses. Perhaps his father was right, that he too strongly trusted his first assumptions. Those weak products of paranoia. Even though he understood their irrationality, it was hard to dismiss. 

“You never expressed a wish to be my confidant, but it seems to be the position coincidence has granted you.” Grantaire said, laughing unhappily. He had not had this difficulty with Jehan, or the few others that knew his secret. But then again, he supposed he had just as soon known theirs. 

“I would help how I can.” Combeferre responded. Grantaire rubbed his eyes, aching at the echo. 

“How similar you are.” He said. There was no need to specify who. “I love him.”

This was not what Grantaire had expected to speak on. He had not even thought of discussing Enjolras until he had realized he was downstairs and the memories of his realization were so violently thrust back to the forefront of his mind. The intention had been simply to be away from his father, and talked down from his state of barely contained hysteria. He was much calmer now, but had also somehow been lured into confession. 

“That is quite a statement.” Grantaire genuinely laughed then. Combeferre, as calm as he sounded, was still audibly surprised by the weight of Grantaire’s claim. It showed in the pauses between his words, the straightening of his spine. Even the omniscient Combeferre could be surprised by him.

“Many have wed for less.” He said. Perhaps it was a rather dramatic thing to admit. Novels and Marius both had spoiled him to the commonality of it. 

Grantaire leaned back, the area between his shoulder blades now joining the wall. Combeferre stayed where he was, but changed his angle slightly so to face Grantaire better. Was he being too rushed, to only have just admitted it to himself and now say it to others? Grantaire did not think so. Really, if he made himself recognize it, he would know that this was not sudden at all. The feelings had not come to him in a quick rush, it was only he had been forced to see what was building all along. 

“I believe I had convinced myself that if I did not acknowledge the feelings I had, they would not exist.” He ran the fingers of his other hand over where his thumb had caused injury before. The mark had long since faded. “Sin is not so easily escaped.” 

“There are worse things than to care for someone. Far worse things.” Combeferre said, voice suddenly firmer than it had been. “What evil is there in loving someone?” Grantaire flicked at his finger petulantly. 

“Enjolras seemed to find some.”

“What did Enjolras say?”

Combeferre fully turned to him then, dark creases having formed between his brows. Grantaire wondered, for the first time, if perhaps Combeferre’s easy acceptance had some tie to his own secrets. There was an edge of concern in his voice that he did not think would be solely for Grantaire’s sake, and he looked genuinely alarmed at what information he might relay. Grantaire had already experienced the unpleasantness of someone guessing that secret for him, so he would not voice his speculation. As he had told Enjolras once, there was more to knowing a man than holding all of his secrets. Combeferre could keep that to himself, he had already shown himself to be someone trustworthy. 

“Forgive my poor wording,” Grantaire corrected, now in the reversed position of needing to ease Combeferre. “He said only that he looked down on those who admired without their affections returned.” The tension in Combeferre’s hold of himself lessened, and he looked back to where he had been facing before. 

“I think I have heard him voice similarly, though I had thought it more on the depth of emotion that should be considered. I did not think he condemned any of it.” Combeferre’s memory of it sounded more true. Perhaps Grantaire’s had been warped with guilt. “I cannot speak for him, but I do not think he would condemn you either. For any of it.” 

Who was to know? Many, even those who championed the oppressed, were selective in who they supported. While he did not think Enjolras the type, he still had no wish to confront it. If Combeferre could not speak for him, perhaps they had never discussed the subject. Or they had, and Combeferre had no wish to repeat the sentiments to any greater specificity. 

Grantaire flinched again when the door opened unexpectedly, an aborted movement to duck behind Combeferre despite how ridiculous it would appear. It was Courfeyrac who entered then, with no one else visibly behind him. He looked over their position in the back corner bed, leaning against the side of the doorframe. It was a much more casual angling than Grantaire’s earlier collapse. 

“Marius is not a very skilled liar.” He explained, gaze moving between them both. He settled on Grantaire with an easy smile, despite the somber expressions they surely both shared. “Are you now responsible for damaging both my friends?”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked warily. By sound alone Courfeyrac seemed to be light and joking, but Grantaire doubted that was all there was to it. 

“Enjolras appeared with the early sun looking dead on his feet and had the gall to wake us up, but has yet to actually tell us what for. He has been strange all morning.” 

Courfeyrac did not repeat the direct accusation again, but even through his friendliness Grantaire got a sense of it. He was the most likely candidate to know of anything happening to Enjolras, other than them, and this was the second sobering conversation he had caught sight of between Combeferre. He had a right to some suspicion. It was not that he seemed to be aiming any direct attack at Grantaire, only wanting to know the full story. Putting some pressure on Grantaire likely seemed the best way to get it.

“Enjolras did not sleep well last night.” Grantaire answered, though he could not look at Courfeyrac as he did. It was as much of a non-answer as he could provide, but Courfeyrac was unsatisfied.

“Did he not?” 

“Courf, not now.” Combeferre cut in gently. 

Courfeyrac looked back to him, a flicker of annoyance crossing his expression before it vanished behind the pleasant look once again. Perhaps he felt excluded from this conflict that so clearly involved the other two. That too was Grantaire’s fault, he supposed. Combeferre must have noticed this as well, because he stood up and crossed the room. 

“Enjolras will tell us if he wishes to.” It could easily have been chastising, but in Combeferre’s mouth it sounded like a comfort. They stared at each other, long enough for Grantaire to now feel the excluded party, but something must have been communicated in their unchanging faces because Courfeyrac simply sighed and took his shoulder off the wall. He patted Combeferre lightly on the shoulder. 

“Enjolras will grow curious if we are gone too long.” He said. There was sincerity in his tone when he turned back to Grantaire. “It was good to see you. We must meet up soon to discuss more pleasant things than your sad poems.” 

It was clear that Combeferre did not enjoy revisiting his lie from back then, nor the evidence that Courfeyrac had never believed it but simply given them space because Combeferre had tried for it. The amount of trust Courfeyrac had must be unimaginable, it was no wonder that he was bothered by the suspicious behavior of the other two, and that they very clearly would not extend that trust back to him in these circumstance. The strength of their bond emboldened Grantaire slightly, enough so to make a truly impulsive decision. Despite what his father might say, he felt this one was right. 

“Combeferre?” He said, despite the rudeness of not responding to Courfeyrac first. He hoped his sentiments would make up for it. “You can tell Courfeyrac, if you wish. I have no energy to recount it again, but I trust your judgement. And his.” 

Courfeyrac’s look of curiosity tripled, darting quickly back and forth between them both. Combeferre looked only at Grantaire, as if waiting to see if he would revoke the sentiment. Grantaire met his gaze as evenly as he could. Eventually, Combeferre nodded, and he and Courfeyrac made to leave. He paused once more before the door had fully closed.

“If you need sleep, you are welcome to stay here. Pontmercy may return soon.” Combeferre’s face soured, as if he did not want to admit something, but should. “I would not ask him for advice on matters of the heart, but he does have some experience with home troubles. It may be worth speaking to him.”

Grantaire did not ask how Combeferre had figured out the rest. He was unsurprised by it, anyway. Grantaire settled back on the bed after Combeferre finally let the door close behind him. He did not even know on whose he lay, but he imagined every resident of this room was selfless enough not to mind. Grantaire waited helplessly for his heartbeat to slow, but he was sure it would not for a long time. There were worse ways this morning could have gone, but it was unlikely to settle his nerves any time soon. 

He pulled an arm over his face. He would not sleep, despite his level of exhaustion, but he could rest. There were many things he had resolved today, and many he had not. He could only pray they could at least decrease their speed of confrontation going forward. He would still have to face them. Enjolras would be present in his life, that was a guarantee. He would be harder to avoid than Grantaire’s new brother. He simply had to figure out how to manage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of the idea that Courf and Ferre are in love, but haven't quite figured their stuff out yet. Compared to them Enj and R are speedrunning this game
> 
> Also, Ferre isn't actually great at talking to people about himself, so I don't think he'd even know how to tell R he felt similarly. He's better at playing like a therapist role where people talk to him than vice versa.


	16. Fragility of Future Plans

Jehan’s return was a blessing of insurmountable lengths. The seven days interim before his arrival were largely spent by Grantaire using whoever he could as a shield, be it Combeferre, Bahorel, Bossuet. Anyone he could find, in truth, to use an excuse to avoid talking to Enjolras directly. Courfeyrac became a new and vital tool as well, with how natural he could make the escapes seem. Grantaire was skilled in the art of derailment, but Courfeyrac excelled in directing. He could take any conversation wherever he wished, as well as instantly starting one from near to anything. He was undefeatable in this power, and Grantaire certainly took advantage of it. 

On occasion Grantaire was plagued with guilt for stealing Enjolras’s companions as his own protection. While these new friends were nothing if not loyal, he got the sense that they felt some difficulty in it. Combeferre maintained that air of knowing more than Grantaire at all times and being unhappy about it, and there were frequent times where it seemed Courfeyrac wanted to say something, but would always silence himself and help Grantaire regardless. It must not be an easy position for them, Grantaire realized, but he was grateful to have allies. 

Had he any more of his wits about him that day, he likely would not have gained their support, so for him to have been so distressed was perhaps now made beneficial. Combeferre never did manage to explain it to Courfeyrac, out of concern for Grantaire changing his mind or stemming from his own fears, Grantaire could not be sure. He claimed confidence that his withholding was no reflection on Courfeyrac’s character, and as Courfeyrac had already gotten wind of the scent of secrets, there was little hope of keeping it from him. Grantaire eventually had to confess it himself, quiet voices in the dark space behind the inn after a meeting. Courfeyrac’s eyes had shone with some wide range of emotion, before taking Grantaire’s hands and swearing himself to secrecy and aid. It had been a pleasant feeling. 

As was previously suggested, Grantaire did continue to attend meetings. He had thought it would have been too much if his absence was noted by the general group, even if it was contradictory with Grantaire’s explanation of being “too busy with a commission” to call or be called on. He wondered, that first time Enjolras had been turned away, if he had gone to check through the studio windows. Grantaire had certainly not been there working on some great creation, instead hidden away in his room and watching the small parts of Enjolras’s arrival and departure that he could see from it. If he knew of Grantaire’s lie, he had not yet challenged it. Not that Grantaire had given him the opportunity to. 

He would confess that the meetings were also an excuse to see Enjolras, who he could not bear to talk to, but could equally not suffer the pain of complete removal. Grantaire had expected some anonymity, anyway, and had considered them safe. He was little paid attention to unless he brought the focus to himself, so he had thought that by going to the meetings he would keep up the appearances of social graces and keep friends from wondering, but be unseen and silent in other respects. Enjolras would be focused on the cause as he always was, and Grantaire would do his best to subtly observe and blend in to the shadows. 

Yet, that had not been the course of events, hence his need for shields. He had managed to be engaged with someone every time Enjolras had approached him, so as to not be trapped speaking alone. Grantaire had only been caught unawares once, at his first public appearance since that night, when Enjolras had immediately taken him by the arm and pulled Grantaire aside, face full of open and sincere concern when he asked what Grantaire’s father had said. Grantaire’s heart had clenched, of course answering before he had even thought on a reply, as well as apologizing for his late intrusion. He had extracted himself before the conversation could progress any further, but was glad at least that much had been said. 

Enjolras did not consider the matter equally resolved, it would seem, as on more than one occasion Grantaire glanced up to find Enjolras’s eyes already on him. He had never seen Enjolras in such a state of distraction, and Grantaire was sure it must frustrate him endlessly. That was at least what he prayed was the cause of Enjolras’s poorly disguised anger and annoyance. Grantaire supposed it was his fault, for so egregiously wrecking Enjolras’s usual separations of environment, but was unsure how he was meant to fix it without causing worse issues. Had Grantaire of the past only known that what it took to gain Enjolras’s attention was not to talk during meetings, he would have been assumed mute long ago. 

But Jehan, Jehan was Grantaire’s savior. Jehan was distraction and excuse in one, as well as comfort and understanding. He had listened to all of Grantaire’s worries that he had not been able to pen, and Grantaire to his. While he could not demand all of his friend’s time, Jehan having also come to meet the rest of their little group, it was a blessing to have him as much as he did. 

“I do not think I have ever seen you so affected by your affections before.” Jehan had said, both resting by the same tree he had found Grantaire and Enjolras under that time ago. 

“This is a new experience,” Grantaire agreed, “And one I do not particularly enjoy.” 

Jehan had known him long enough to be witness to one or two of Grantaire’s attachments, though he had often been frustrated by Grantaire’s nonchalance in informing him. While he was certainly prone to waxing poetic, in the actual announcement he would be fairly short, with a tone akin to commenting on the weather. A simple “Oh, and I am enamored with someone in my third class” before moving on. It was not as if Grantaire was careless, he could not afford to be in his situation, but he was immediately dismissive of feelings that would amount to nothing. To begin with a defeatist attitude would spare him some of the pain, or so he had convinced himself. 

He had frightened Jehan half to death with how serious he had been in Enjolras’s case. Even at the third admittance, the words did not come easily to him. It was not as if these emotions were any different in their futility, only Grantaire had at some point gotten out of practice in dismissing them. When he was finally able to articulate it, as well as the issues with his father, Jehan’s habit of sympathetic tears had shown themselves, and Grantaire had been pulled into a tight embrace. Jehan had not needed him to say any more to understand the pain, letting the emotions be wordlessly communicated. But, of course, Jehan was a poet. When he had his fill of Grantaire wallowing in self pity, his romantic view of the world and desire for those words had taken hold. 

“Ah, but there is a beauty in it.” A small bug was brushed off the leg of Jehan’s trousers, though far too gently to do any damage to it. “It was not as if groups such as these did not exist in London, you would not follow me to them. You are uniquely devoted, have you finally found a belief that you do not scorn?” 

“I believe in nothing but the stubbornness of a man, and my senseless following is to him, not a cause. It is, in some respects, still quite cynical.” Jehan hummed, disbelieving and imaginative. 

“The cynic and the revolutionary.” He said in a dangerous tone. Grantaire pushed at his shoulder in protest. 

“I can hear your wish for a pen and paper as if you spoke it aloud.” Jehan did not deny it. “There is no great romance in this. Either it will fade like all the rest, despite the deeper hold these emotions seem to have, or I will adjust and learn to continue on as usual with them under the surface. Whatever epic tale you are imagining has no hope of coming to pass.” 

“It does not need to be about you, only inspired by.” Jehan defended, though Grantaire could already him releasing the idea. Or at least he hoped. He would look out for any of Jehan’s future publications, loose interpretation as they may be. 

As a poet and a natural lover, Jehan was less useful in the way of practical advice than encouraging Grantaire’s imaginations. He was happy to entertain the speculations that Grantaire had so far avoided, creating visions of that far distant could be. His sharing of them was not as insensitive as it might seem, it did at least give Grantaire the space to create a normalcy of the emotions, to let them settle into an accepted role in his life. It would, he hoped, make it easier to control them and interact with Enjolras in the future as they had before. He would create that distance that had kept him safe in the past in order to return to a closer dynamic going forward. 

Jehan’s arrival also came at the time of an important exchange. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had lives outside of this town, and were not capable of staying indefinitely. Marius should also have been included, but no one was yet sure what he planned to do, and if he would find some way to stay near his love. There would be a wedding for them to return for, if they were in luck, but Marius shared very little detail, and Cosette’s letters less so, which caused them all to wonder at the complexity of the situation. Marius had spontaneously entertained the idea of moving to France, for no reason that any of them had been able to guess at. As far as Grantaire was certain, Cosette had remained in the country. 

Of Courfeyrac and Combeferee, Grantaire would be sorry to see them go. Enjolras even more so, he knew, but they were already promising the quickest return they could manage. They had matters to settle, as they had already been here so long, but would continue writing letters to every member of the collection. Grantaire, who had for the most part been exempt from his duties of letter carrier as of late, had promised Combeferre that he would continue to pass correspondence along, as well as answer anything directed at him this time round. He had not yet figured out the technicalities of such a promise, but he did expect to hold true to it.

“Enjolras, why not host something grand for our departure?” Courfeyrac had suggested when the topic of their leaving was first broached, chin perched carefully atop laced fingers. “A ball, to provide us with some sense of country fun before we are to retreat to the city?”

The words certainly caught the attention of the wider group. Grantaire was completely distracted by them, though Courfeyrac was not speaking particularly close to him and it was only by the easy carry of his voice that Grantaire had heard him at all. He had been previously engrossed in a conversation with Jehan and Feuilly over sword fighting methods, but completely fell silent. Many of the others seemed to have heard it as well, and most turned to Enjolras, curiously awaiting his response. Since it was the move of the general crowd, Grantaire allowed himself to do similarly. 

It made sense to pose the question to him, as Enjolras was the only one among them with control over a large property. Not to mention it would show a good degree of social engagement if the news was taken back to his parents, which Courfeyrac likely also considered. Still, Grantaire wondered at the uncomfortable edge to it. They were a group of mixed classes, and while they seldom found issue in their interactions, he was sure they would be made uncomfortable on that sort of display. Balls of the Enjolras family caliber were not a pastime that a considerable number of the group were accustomed to. 

To Grantaire’s surprise, it was none of them that Enjolras looked to for consultation on his answer. It was rather Grantaire who Enjolras’s eyes found from across the room, though not far enough that there was any way to mistake the intention of his gaze. Grantaire was the only one he knew to have a confirmed distaste of such an environment, he supposed, but it still surprised Grantaire enough that he was caught and could not simply turn away. Just as Enjolras had that night of his parent’s ball, he was placing a great deal of weight on Grantaire’s opinion. Grantaire felt unusually nervous to give it. He hardly expected that sort of instinctual trust after the rift he had caused between them. 

He could be dismissive, of course, to ward of Enjolras’s attentions in the future. It would be no great hardship to pass the baton on and ask anyone around him. They would likely give a far better answer than he, but something still restrained him. Enjolras may not have asked anything directly, but it was still Grantaire’s thoughts he sought, inspired by a memory of shared displeasure. They had both been unhappy then, isolated and under observation. With all of them in attendance, perhaps there would be no one so focused on and it would be something better, closer to the bright memories Grantaire had of balls happily spent. He wet his bottom lip, letting his jaw adjust to accommodate the movement.

“We would each have friends there, a strength in numbers.” He answered, both a comfort to their friends and a sort of promise to Enjolras that it would not be the same as it was. Enjolras stared at him a moment longer, before nodding in confirmation and understanding. 

“Something small.” He agreed. 

Of course, it was not able to be as small as Enjolras likely hoped. There was always the risk of mortal offense in anyone who was not invited, and while Grantaire was sure Enjolras hardly cared, he had heard that Courfeyrac had done much of the actual planning. There were some restraints Enjolras had placed, that it was not to be too formal, with no strict coloring or dress code to be emphasized. It had the preparations for a scandal, certainly, but Grantaire much preferred dressing in his comfortably respectable green waistcoat than what he had worn last time. He looked more himself, at least. Perhaps the richer attendees would simply consider it a costume party, to dress like one would on a casual errand.

Grantaire was nervous, of course, to return to the house, as he had not yet. But if there was any place less likely to be caught alone with Enjolras, it would be at a ball. He would distract himself with friends, food, and wine and make no great misstep with Enjolras that would further strain their friendship than Grantaire’s forced distance already had. He felt very near to being able to let things return to normal. Soon his change in behavior would be forgotten, and Enjolras would leave Grantaire’s emotions and motivations to it unquestioned and unknown. 

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had gone on without him, as they were separate parties in a way. Grantaire hoped to be fashionably late, to miss Enjolras greeting everyone by the door and blend seamlessly into the crowd. He aimlessly adjusted his sleeves and collar, as he had gotten ready far too easily to effectively waste time. What a shame that he could so often lose focus and extend tasks when he needed them to be done quicker, but was somehow left to be bored now. It was not until he heard infant cries echoing through the house that he had any actual diversion. 

Grantaire had not frequently gone to the nursery. In truth, he had avoided this entire building as much as he could for the strange noises that rang through it as a reminder of the change. Still, he felt his feet taking him there now. His father and his wife had been invited to the ball as well, as an invitation could not have arrived at the house for Grantaire alone, but his father had thankfully refused. Grantaire had seen very little of them as of late. Perhaps it was his intention to give Grantaire his own space, or perhaps it was simply out of convenience. He did not inform Grantaire either way. 

The nursemaid was bouncing Jean alone when Grantaire reached them, the child still fussing with little hands grasping at her clothes. She blankly watched Grantaire’s entry, though she made no protest as Grantaire came closer. With a clearer head he did find something strangely familiar in her face, though he had not noticed it before. She could not have been much older than him, if at all, but the years seemed to wear on her more harshly. 

“Could I hold him?” She nodded, and Grantaire sat nearby to make the exchange. Luckily Jean quieted in his arms, as he was unsure how he would have handled his struggles. “What is your name?” He asked, so to not leave them in silence. 

“Floreal.” The woman answered, though she seemed surprised by his question. Not greatly, as he imagined she had already heard some about him from the other servants, but he was a rather unusual character. “You may not remember, but it was my mother who nursed and cared for you and your sister.” 

She must have been a fixture of the household for some period of Grantaire’s childhood, for him to recognize her. Perhaps they had played together. He would note that many of his standing and higher seemed to have a short memory of such friendships. He had perhaps only maintained one with Musichetta because she had stayed present. 

“How have the years treated you?” He asked. “You followed in your mother’s footsteps, it would seem.”

“I was a seamstress, first.” She looked even more tired detailing it. “Married a banker. Now I have children of my own, and this occupation.” 

Grantaire felt awkward for having pried. There were implications in her words, of attempted independence, followed by a desperate seeking of stability and an unhappy life as of a result. Grantaire and Enjolras may lament their lack of freedoms, but they had not faced the same sort as hers, nor would they ever. He directed his attention towards the infant in his arms instead, to avoid speaking further. 

Grantaire had hardly moved his arms from their protective support since being handed him, scared that if he shifted in any way this small and delicate thing would come to harm. With intense carefulness he released one hand to come and pull at the blankets around the baby’s face. Grantaire used one finger to gently tap him on the nose as well, earning him a toothless and bewildered smile. Perhaps he was the first in the short life of this little boy to do so. How many new experiences he had ahead of him, both pleasant and unpleasant, and many far more confusing than a tap on the nose. 

He would never have a child of his own. This was something Grantaire had known for years, and it had been confirmed to him by his father’s plans. Still, having been known to him and having truly realized it were not equal matters. With him there now, holding his little brother with eyes the same as his in his arms, it created a faint ache beneath his ribs. He would have enjoyed having children, he thought, though that was hardly open to him now. If nothing else, he could do his best to be a suitable brother. 

Little hands began pulling at Grantaire’s lapels, much the same as he had seen him tugging at Floreal’s clothing before. He looked up at her in askance, as Jean began to make small frustrated noises as well. The second of longing Grantaire had for nonexistent heirs was shattered by the immediate wants of this human child. 

“He is hungry. I will take him, before he does any damage to your fine clothing.” Grantaire returned him to her grasp, understanding the dismissal as it was. He had no knowledge of how much his step mother observed or participated in any of the process so far, but he was certain it was a private affair regardless. It was high time he took his leave anyway, so he bid farewell to them both before making his departure. 

All of the routes to Enjolras’s house were practiced ones by now, though Grantaire could not take the shortest and risk his clothes in the process. The summer night had not yet fully released the sun’s remnants, but it was a near thing. The carriage had been a possibility, and one Grantaire had considered to be kinder on his return, but the air had seemed pleasant enough for it to be a waste. 

The facade of house was lit up like it had been before, though not quite as boisterous. Grantaire was not the only one making a late appearance, as he saw making his way up the steps, but the bustle had long since passed. There was no line at the door, which suggested Grantaire had escaped his worries. He only had to show his invitation to a servant at the door, before entering the illuminated circuit. 

It was, perhaps understated was the wrong word, but it did not have the same degree of excess that Grantaire had felt during the last ball. There was dancing, music, all the usual festivities, but Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s touch regardless. More noticeably was the wide range of colors, likely all desperate attempts to comply with the strange instructions on dressing freely. None were nearly as exciting as Grantaire may have hoped, but it looked more like a common crowd than a high end ball. Grantaire was sure Enjolras would be pleased by it. 

“Mr. Grantaire!” A positively glowing Cosette appeared in front of him, dressed in soft blues with pearls about her hair. She looked like a gift from the seas, with a positively enamored Marius following close behind. 

“Miss Fauchelevent, I had not anticipated your appearance.” Grantaire said, bowing to her. 

“Papa is more understanding than he was.” She answered vaguely, curtsying back. “I am pleased to finally see you again. Green suits you quite well.” Better than yellow had, surely. That was far more her color.

“Careful, or we should make Mr. Pontmercy jealous.” Marius’s cheeks ruddied, and he hurried to protest. 

“I have no claim over Miss Fauchelevent’s attentions.” He said. Cosette gave him a fond look.

“You have no need to fear them wandering.” Her eyes returned to Grantaire. “Though you must promise me a dance, you were such a skilled partner on our last occasion.”

“The fading of memory has been overly kind to me, I am sure.” He looked to Marius, hoping for an escape. “I do not think that is the best idea.”

“She has danced with me twice already.” Marius answered, misunderstanding his signals. “My talent is lacking, I will admit and I would gladly accept the moment to rest my feet from their offenses of stepping on hers.”

Grantaire could hardly refuse them both, both entirely too wide eyed and good-naturedly persuasive. He agreed to a dance, but only after having had a moment longer to speak with the others. Cosette agreed, and enjoyed meeting Jehan, who Grantaire had spotted and called over. Apparently Marius had already introduced her to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who had both found her charming, though they had long since disappeared onto the balcony. Grantaire did not bother to provide chase, as he was sure they would return soon. 

He had passing interactions with a few others. Bahorel, who had seen both sides of this world so to speak, provided an easygoing comfort for those that were less adjusted to the environment. He had gathered most of them to himself as a result, a pleasant little pocket of difference. He did not reassume the role of a gentleman, either out of forgetfulness or by intentional choice, and Grantaire too enjoyed his unchanged nature. 

Feuilly had cleaned up well, making a striking and somewhat intimidating figure, though he maintained a close proximity to Bahorel in what Grantaire was sure was an effort to manage his unease. Musichetta had simply been thrilled to put faces to names, and was happily conversing with all of them. Grantaire took a moment to speak to everyone he could. It was enjoyable, Grantaire found, to see familiar figures when he looked about the crowd, and to see them just as thrilled to notice him. It took away that unbalanced edge that he so often felt in social situations, and he felt less of a need to compensate with drink. 

Cosette allowed him these exchanges, but eventually her patience did run out. She returned to hover until Grantaire took notice, the very eye contact being the mark of his downfall. She had even timed it so he did not have the excuse of waiting until the next song, the one before winding down just enough to give them the perfect window to make their way on the dance floor. Cosette used her wide doe eyes to persuade him without another word. Grantaire was helpless against her will, and was taken out into the space of preparing dancers. 

It was a slightly more formal one than Grantaire would have liked. He spent most of the music standing while Cosette had to tiptoe around him in unison with the other dancers. Grantaire certainly lost no great amount of energy to it, but Cosette was a pleasant partner and he enjoyed himself all the same. She made every unexciting move like it was a small adventure, and her enjoyment bled into Grantaire as well through the small contact of their fingers. 

“Could I trouble you for one more?” Cosette asked as they shifted to their end positions. She had to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the clapping for the musicians. 

He had little reason to refuse. The shapes the figures had started to move suggested it was to be a group dance, a Quadrille if he was to guess. He had always favored those sort of dances that involved more than just a single partner set, even if this one was more inclined towards a contradictory mix of skipping and stiffness. Well, Grantaire had not skipped in a great while, so who was he to turn down Cosette’s request?

They were meant to form a group of eight, which Grantaire was relieved to see had been created simply by positioning than out of friendliness. He did not have much faith in the rest of the attendees to assume he would be welcomed to join their circles, but they all simply seemed to fall into place with the small exchanges of those leaving and coming on to the dance floor. He looked around, to see if any of their fellows had chosen to participate as well. He thought he spotted Courfeyrac farther down, but could not be sure. 

“Oh, Mr. Enjolras, are you joining us?” 

Cosette’s words brought Grantaire violently back to look at the foreground, where he found Enjolras standing just across from him in the circle, eyes equally wide. Grantaire wondered if Cosette could feel him tense, as they were not yet touching but the proximity was near enough. He could pray she did not. How dramatic he was, to react so. Jehan had been right in the severity of his responses, he truly was hopeless.

Grantaire would blame both his surprise and that established trend of miscalculation for his mistake in looking at Enjolras directly. As it was, he was made to face him in his full glory. Grantaire was particularly captured by the vibrancy of his waistcoat, so different from the gentlemanly whites he had not even realized he had been envisioning. It brought back an unexpected memory, of attempting to persuade Enjolras to wear his ridiculous hunting coat to his parent’s ball, and he could not help but smile fondly with the recollection. It was not so harsh a shade as that, this version of red was commanding but in a rather lovely way. Grantaire felt an urge to memorize its pigment for potential paintings, assuming he had the skill to recreate it, or the memories it held. 

He caught himself a moment later, knowing that his face had not been nearly as schooled as it should. He looked up from Enjolras’s chest, only to find his face an even more dangerous destination that trapped him yet again. Pale curls, and the caress of candlelight over his skin, and an expression that he imagined was some response to his own, though he could not decipher it. How weak he was, with love for this man. It struck him again like a knife between the ribs, and Grantaire was forced to pull his gaze that short distance away and reach beyond Enjolras’s shoulder. That too must have been sickeningly obvious, and he wondered if Enjolras’s oblivion would still protect him. 

After a moment Enjolras took a sharp inhale like he had forgotten to breathe. Realizing he had left Cosette unanswered, he turned back from her, as if to exclude Grantaire from his focus entirely. A fair turn about, he supposed. Grantaire did not want to know what thoughts had distracted him so thoroughly, to cause Enjolras to pause even in bodily functions. There was no escape open to him now that he could see, and Grantaire could not even bring himself to create one for himself using friendly conversation. He felt as if his tongue had turned to lead, and was made immobile in his mouth. They both were not particularly subtle in their mutual avoidance of acknowledgement, he imagined. 

“I am.” Enjolras said, his late response to Cosette. His companion was not even a second thought, it would seem, as she had to prompt him with a small cough for Enjolras to remember her. “Oh, and may I offer introductions?” 

Though he resolutely did not look at him still, Grantaire could tell Enjolras was unhappy in this setting and conversation. He disliked dancing, so for him to be here now meant he had been somehow persuaded. How Enjolras had been convinced of anything he did not want, Grantaire could hardly know, unless Courfeyrac or one of the others had suggested it. He wondered if Enjolras’s disinterest in his companion was as palpable to her as it was to Grantaire, and he pitied her experience if it was. He was sure there were still plenty in attendance that wished to catch the young Enjolras’s attention, if only they understood how difficult it was to gain. Or to lose. 

The music started, cutting off any further conversation, but placed Grantaire in a different sort of hell. The steps required them to go in and out, and to cross the circle frequently, so their distance of opposing sides provided less protection than any other position would have. It was difficult for Grantaire to champion the ideas of distance in his mind when Enjolras had such physical proximity to him. Grantaire was sure he was a far less enjoyable partner than he had been before, sometimes losing track of the complicated footwork when Enjolras passed too close. It was undignified for a man of his age and experience to be so flustered and made incapable. Grantaire was not easily embarrassed, but his cheeks felt hot now. He could only hope those around attributed it to his exertion. 

It was a long dance, and as they increased in complexity, he was blissfully able to devote more of his focus to the steps and less on his surroundings. It was impossible to ignore Enjolras entirely, the changing of partners making it necessary for Grantaire to keep his eyes up and therefore forcing Grantaire to accept Enjolras’s role in his periphery. He could imagine them separate, divided by the veil that was his unfocused eyes, and therefore giving him the separation he needed to relax. Grantaire did his best to collect the emotions that had so quickly gone rogue at his first sight or Enjolras. So much for his great faith in his improving control. 

Grantaire was further unbalanced when he unsuspectingly took a hand in his across the circle, only to remember who it was that had been positioned there. He nearly stopped and caused a collision with the other gentlemen circling with them, though he did not let himself falter long. His heart did not steady as easily as his step, and when he looked up to check, Enjolras’s eyes were already on him. Grantaire knew the second he was seen through by Enjolras’s eerie perception, the hand under his flexing imperceptibly. There was certainly no vagueness in his expression now, as Grantaire could read his determination clearly. Enjolras had questions, and he wanted them answered. 

Though he pulled his hand away as soon as discretion permitted, it was as if a link had already been formed. Grantaire’s fingers burned with the phantom warmth, despite the other hands that passed through his. In the short span of this dance alone, he had somehow exposed his heart a full three times. Enjolras would have been blind to miss all of them, with how far they both had come in relying on the expression of their bodies rather than their words. Grantaire had no faith that his face had been any better at hiding him than he guessed. He had ruined his own chances at convincingly playing a friend, by pressing their faces against each other, avoiding him without further explanation, then giving longing gazes across the dance floor. He was not the heroine of a romance, this behavior was not suited to him.

But, for the first time since Grantaire had stopped speaking to him, Enjolras had not looked angry. Grantaire’s eyes could not help but continuously find him again and again, half afraid, half captivated and trying to confirm what he had glimpsed before. Enjolras matched each of Grantaire’s glimpses as well as they could through the turns of the dance, each incorporeal contact between them destabilizing Grantaire further. This was something far different to what he had expected, though not entirely alien. Grantaire was not so hideous a creature that he had never seen that curiosity from a man before. 

He felt emboldened by it, this complex mix of emotions now so ambiguously displayed between them, and when their left hands came into contact next, Grantaire let his linger a moment too long. What his logic was he could not say. It was a test, perhaps, in the same way that he had tried to use sudden changes in behavior to get information from Enjolras before. Not that they had brought him any success. It was far more likely that this was the complete and utter failure of the walls he had attempted to build. Better yet, it was a signal. Grantaire had always been unconvinced of how much could be communicated through eyes alone, but he was sure that after the small movement of his index finger, unnoticeable to all around them, they were a mirror of each other’s uncertainty and interest. 

When the music ended, Grantaire knew what Enjolras was going to say before he even reached him. Grantaire knew he should refuse, find another shield and not take the risk of being alone with Enjolras and Grantaire’s own penchant for stupidity. Grantaire would not be able to escape another conversation with him, he knew. Enjolras’s persistence and his own curiosity would not permit it. Those around them were still clapping, Cosette at his side among them, but Enjolras made no pause to wait out the sound. Grantaire could still hear him perfectly well. 

“R, speak with me a moment. Please.” It was in part a plea, but also a demand. Or perhaps only Grantaire felt it so. He did not think himself capable of refusing, not when Enjolras looked at him so desperately. Whatever may come of it, Grantaire swallowed tightly and nodded. 

Enjolras needed no further confirmation, and Grantaire felt his sleeve securely gripped as if to ensure he would not disappear and go back on his word. Much in the same way that Enjolras had at the hall dance all that time ago, Grantaire quickly pulled himself free, fearing the publicness of the action. Enjolras did not need to hold onto him again, as they were both already certain Grantaire would go with him anyway. Was this what it was to be a believer, to follow something while suspecting that nothing but pain lay ahead, yet still pushed on by that strange vein of possibility? 

He was taken to that same servants corridor as before, though this time Enjolras made no attempt to light any candle, too busy pacing in the short space. Grantaire waited, allowing his eyes time to adjust while watching Enjolras’s behavior. He seemed to be undergoing an impressive effort to gather his thoughts before speaking, but Grantaire was unsure how successful he was. Grantaire was certainly incapable of calming himself. 

“We are both impulsive men.” Enjolras said, rounding on Grantaire with his complete intensity of focus. He did not continue, as if Grantaire was meant to understand that alone. Was he affirming the inconsequentiality of their potential act?

“I would not disagree.” Grantaire responded after a pause. He was made restless with nervous energy, and he crossed his arms. His middle finger made slow circles against the fabric it met, though it was little help in relaxing him. At least if Enjolras included himself, he doubted it was meant as an attack. Enjolras exhaled sharply from his nose.

“I have been doing my best to not approach this carelessly, because of that. It was necessary to understand everything, to be sure before taking any action. It is not something I am accustomed to.”

“I am not following.” Grantaire said, though he was fairly certain he was. He had some urge to push Enjolras further, despite it. Yes, this sort of thing was dangerous for them both, but perhaps if he could get Enjolras to confess his motives Grantaire’s breathing would settle. 

“Your changeability confuses me to this day, Grantaire. Sometimes I would think your intentions so clear, but you would always manage to make me doubt them soon after. And that night, Grantaire, I did not simply forget it because you disappeared and refused to speak to me again after.” There was an edge of Enjolras’s fierceness there that gave Grantaire the sense that Enjolras was far more upset with those actions than Grantaire had realized. Still, he could see his considerable effort to control it, to make sense of anything before his emotions interfered. “I would not make the assumption that anything you did in a state of inebriation and emotional distress was of your conscious will, but just now I saw how you looked at me, encouraging all my suspicions. Grantaire, tell me-” 

Against any of Grantaire’s better judgement, he crossed the short space with incredible speed and pressed the palm of his hand against Enjolras’s mouth. Of all the ways to silence him, it was not Grantaire’s most intelligent, as he was sure Enjolras could feel him shaking from the contact. His fear had fully returned, and he suddenly had no wish to hear it said. What if he had misjudged Enjolras, and simply exposed himself? Enjolras had been talking, but really what sense had any of it made, other than proving Grantaire’s inability to hide anything from this man? Once again, he felt it an unfair exchange between which one of them knew more of the other. If he already understood it, Grantaire would not be forced to make that confession yet again. 

“Do not ask me.” He said. “Please, Enjolras. That is not an answer I want to give. Do not ask me.” 

Grantaire wished his hand hand had been wide enough to cover Enjolras’s eyes as well, as they remained unrelenting in their focus. Frustration and determination both could be seen in them, a refusal to leave this to silence still. Enjolras slowly moved his own hand up to take away Grantaire’s, needing hardly any force to do it. He did not move it far, nor did he release him.

“Then let me tell you.” Enjolras said, as if this was an argument to win, pressing his lips back to Grantaire’s palm in a much different way with the small but unmistakable sensation of a kiss. Grantaire’s move then, it would seem. 

Pulling their hands down between them and replacing the contact against Enjolras’s lips with his own was a simple thing, and how it brought their bodies together was even more so. Without even realizing it, he had crowded Enjolras back against the wall of the corridor. The sounds of the party were still audible, muffled slightly by the door between them. There was a sharp streak of light allowed in from the seam below the door, though it did not find their shoes in its reach. Grantaire found these facts distracting. It all seemed to be distracting, as if the world had suddenly increased in intensity of experience. The sharpest of all of them was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, providing a nearly overpowering drum beat, or perhaps the heat of Enjolras’s mouth against his.

There was a hand in Grantaire’s hair, the closest thing he had to an anchor in this storm. Grantaire could not figure out how to settle his own, nor choose anywhere to focus. It was placed first on the wall beside Enjolras’s hip, then actually moving to the hip itself. He imagined his mouth would have been just as restless, had Enjolras not so completely captured it. For all that Grantaire was indecisive, Enjolras was not. He made his objectives clear.

Grantaire bit Enjolras’s lip in surprise when the hand left his and moved between their legs. The hot, uneven breaths barely had room to release between their faces as he pulled back. Enjolras paused immediately, as if waiting for confirmation to continue. Perhaps Enjolras did not know everything, if he still misunderstood that as a protest. Grantaire’s fingers found the wrist beside his face, though he could not tell which pulse of theirs it was he felt under them. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, though Grantaire had no interest in any more words being said. He let the movement of his hips answer instead. 

There was perhaps nothing less gentlemanly than what they were doing now, rutting against each other like animals in the dark. But even gentlemen had their heirs, their bastards, so perhaps this was not so unaffiliated a practice. Why was it so often compared to beasts, as if mankind did not rely on the same process to continue? Not even the animal kingdom would have a sense of what they were doing now, as the recreational pursuits were even more uniquely human. 

It was a sense of unravelling that Grantaire experienced, as if he had been tightly coiling all of his emotions for a very long time, and they now became quickly undone to fill the spaces of their entanglement with each jolt of friction. He wondered if Enjolras felt it too, his frustrations with Grantaire’s absence also guiding him. None of Enjolras’s actions were unkind, despite the intensity, and while he kissed deeply he still managed to be gentle. Grantaire would admit that he led less than he might have expected, not manhandling Grantaire in any way. Despite how Grantaire may appear, he would not have been the first to try, and he almost wished he would. Grantaire did not want this to be kind, to be loving. Those were far too hopeful lies to be the type Grantaire favored. 

They pushed and pulled at each other, hands, hips, thighs and all else doing as much as they could. There was an equal passion from both ends, at least, though Grantaire doubted a similar claim could be made of them on any other front.

They wore too many layers, and the space was far too dangerous to fully free any of their body beyond what was already presented to polite society. They were instead made to suffer the chaffings of the fabric against now-sensitive skin. Grantaire was mostly blind to it, the other sensations providing a suitable distraction, but it was an undercurrent to the scene. It emphasized the rushed, desperate nature of it. A small gasp tore from Enjolras’s throat, breaking them apart long enough for Grantaire to change directive. Enjolras’s high collar did not give him much room, but he pressed a rough kiss in the space allowed, before catching the skin between his teeth. He could not leave any noticeable mark, nothing that could expose them, but he enjoyed the sounds Enjolras made regardless. 

Grantaire was not inexperienced in this sort of pursuit, and he would consider it a testament to his experience when Enjolras was brought to a shuddering release first. It was not all that much longer before he followed, and he was left breathless and with his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. The man in his arms was almost entirely limp, though still supported by Grantaire’s bracketing. For a brief moment they were fully expended, relaxed, and very nearly content. 

A raucous laugh, echoing from somewhere beyond in the party, brought Grantaire’s mind back to him. He did not pull away immediately, knowing they were both likely to collapse if he did, and instead listening to the loud breathing that filled the silence of their space. He could only pray none of their sounds had carried as much that had. How had he been so foolish, so impulsive, as Enjolras had warned? He willed his legs to regain their strength, so he could escape this in some way.

This was not the first situation of this kind Grantaire had found himself in. Someone discovers Grantaire’s secret, either through his own missteps or their instincts, and uses the situation to their gratification. Grantaire would not even be certain all of them shared his interests, or if they were simply curious or deprived. It was not as if he had been an unwilling participant in any of them, just as willing to take an opportunity as it came. He had suspected Enjolras of such a thing once, standing drunk in his room at a party much like this one. Even a bedroom would have been a smarter decision than this, giving them barely three feet of safety in a corridor open to the full staff. 

Grantaire was shaking again. What had he been thinking, not only on allowing it to happen here, but to happen at all? Grantaire was not usually so self destructive as to reach this point with anyone he loved, as it was quite the opposite of that safe distance he aspired to. This was close, far too close, and felt just as painful as Grantaire had feared. He had hoped, in seeing that heated expression across from his on the dance floor, and again over the palm of his hand, that some part of his wishes and imaginations would be filled. They had, certainly, but not without a price. Grantaire was in agony. 

He stepped back, the air now seeming frigid against his front, as well as the dampened space on his trousers. It was an unpleasant replacement to how warm Enjolras had been against him. Even in a low light such as this, Grantaire was certain anyone who looked at them would know what they had been up to. Grantaire had been sloppy, in his surprise. He needed to leave now, completely unseen, to protect them both. Perhaps Enjolras had been trusting his experience in this. Grantaire had certainly done a terrible job so far, but he could help yet by disappearing. How convenient that running away also happened to be exactly what he wished to do. 

Enjolras was watching him, lax expression slowly turning to confusion. He opened his mouth, and Grantaire ran.

He was not so unintelligent to exit back through the rest of the party, so he instead took off down the passage. It was dark, but he remembered following it with Enjolras well enough, and was sure he had seen at least a few exits on his route. Perhaps his return home would be far less an enjoyable experience of the night air than he had hoped, but he was glad now not to have been tied to a driver. This disaster at least was between him and Enjolras alone. He doubted this was something he would confess to any of their mutual friends. They would make no note of his disappearance, he was sure. It didn’t matter, even if they did. Grantaire had no explanaition to offer them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, planning the story: This chapter will take me like a day max to write, I know exactly what I want to happen  
> Me now, multiple days into trying to write this mess, crying into my keyboard: Why are my only plot notes 👀 🖐 👄 ??
> 
> Don't look up the Quadrille, it gives me second hand embarrassment and probably is not a great dance to have sexual tension during. It was a group dance popular after 1815 with at least one version that let dudes touch, so I did what I had to. I'm haunted by awkward dosey-does as well as how disorganized this chapter is


	17. Nearly Naked Truths

It was the worst kept secret of the gentlemen in Grantaire’s generation that their lives were unchaste ones. Truly, in conversation anywhere beyond the ears of women, it was something easily discussed and encouraged. Social outings to brothels, discussions of mistresses and their actions, even the meeting of them, all were things Grantaire had been exposed to in order to maintain his guise. He too had his own versions of those stories, he supposed, though none he would comfortably recount to a drunken table of classmates without heavy modification. So long as they did marry eventually, and created nothing so public as to spark scandal, the young rakes of his time were largely unfettered. The sexual strictures were in word alone, and all those lustful impulses were tolerated. As was the gentleman’s privilege. 

He had marvelled a great many times at the irony of what was said in churches, or expected of women. If one knew the right streets to go to, they would find many speakers of such sentiments actively discrediting them. Take a man to the docks to see his true perspectives, see the bawdy comments he made when believing himself in front of a safe audience. This was not the stuff of romance novels, that much was to be sure, but there was only ever so much one could manage to publish. Mankind was not so proper as it would like to believe itself, or how it attempted in presentation. It had wants and needs, and by each individual the discretion and efforts in filling them would differ. Grantaire was certainly included in those of a higher degree. What choice did he really have? It was not as if he even had the option to wait for marriage. 

Grantaire often framed himself in his own mind as someone with vast arrays of experience, and he was certain compared to many others of his disposition that was true. He had been given unique access to environments he certainly would not have known had he stayed in the country, and had vastly furthered his practice there. While his encounters did not reach any large number of the sort he had certainly heard bragged of, neither was he a novice. Grantaire was no chaste being, and he was not a stranger to those unholy acts. He had a fair number of notches in his bedpost, though he had held on to none of them for long. 

Grantaire had not gone to London untouched, either, having started even before then. He could not recall how they had found each other, but there had been a wealthy merchant’s son once upon a time. Grantaire’s technique had been far worse then, but they had put far more care into not being caught. They did not meet socially, to avoid any connection, and formed no close personal relationship. They too had stolen away at balls, as it provided some excuse for their meeting, but with far better hidden destinations. It had given Grantaire much of the necessary training, all of which he had greatly put to waste as of late. 

The man had not been the heir to his line, in fact there was a vague recollection of far too many siblings in the back of Grantaire’s memories. Grantaire was fairly certain he had joined the family business and left this place far behind, as it had been many years since they had seen each other. Grantaire would be envious if he did not so intensely hate boat travel, but it had provided them with a clean end. There had been no emotions spared for him, being the impersonal, unattractive fulfilment that he was, and while Grantaire had been grateful to know that he was not alone in his experiences, he too had not pined after him in any way. Their arrangement was a practical one. 

Of course there had been moments in Grantaire’s life, held in a warm embrace and isolated from the world, where he had wished for something more than practicality. Not with any of the owners of those arms, for the most part Grantaire had been resolute in keeping his heart far away from any such physical intimacy, but that did not keep him from desiring the concept. He had met a few who had tried. Those places he and Jehan had frequented had the social environment that even those considering themselves committed would visit. The couples had not made him hopeful, as dedicated as some were. There was always a truth of wives or speculation that they could not entirely escape. Even the confirmed bachelors marked with content seemed an unfulfilling end to him, but perhaps requited love made it so. Grantaire was too unfamiliar to be sure.

The one certainty he had was that no one had ever held that dedication with him. It was true that everyone he met felt strongly about him in some way or another, but he had yet to ever spark that emotion from someone. He had never been the Cosette to someone’s Marius, though that would hardly bring anyone surprise. Grantaire did not have the face for someone to fall in love at first sight with, nor the manner for those feelings to grow. A pitiful thing, surely, but he embraced it well enough. This was the reality of it, and no manner of gentle hands would delude him from this truth. 

Grantaire had not slept, overcome with an uneasy mind as he deliberated these aged memories and information. Many emotions of both past and present had decided to make a home in his heart, and caused far too much noise in his mind to allow rest. It was not an entirely unfamiliar experience, and he treated the symptoms with the usual medicine. The glass of the bottle, made warm from his hand, was a comfort, though its contents were unsuccessful in their purpose. The volume of his mind did not decrease, and Grantaire was left in the loud silence of awareness. 

The hours spent between his leaving Enjolras and those of normal wakefulness were spent by Grantaire on the floor of his studio. His nightshirt alone hardly provided ample warmth for the setting, but it was simpler to attribute his tremors to that of a chill rather than residual adrenaline. A candle had been brought with him, but he managed to watch the entirety of its extinction while he sat there. All it illuminated were empty canvases, after all, so he felt no great pressure to replace it. Grantaire had spent some moments irritably rearranging the contents of the room on his arrival, but no matter what he did there was not much to show. At least it had provided a momentary distraction. 

As the light of his candle dimmed, the sky beyond the tall windows brightened. It was hindered somewhat by rain, but the fall was light enough that the birds all happily started their waking songs through the noise. He had not even noticed when it began to fall, the repetitive beats having blurred into the background as soon as they began. Grantaire had no strong sense of time, only the vague awareness of continuous rainfall and faint light creating shadows of the drops. They chased each other’s outlines on the floor around Grantaire’s feet, all racing towards the earth in faulty tracks. They must be envious of those that got to fall from the sky unhindered, reaching the soil below without the barrier of glass. There was little good they could do against a window, no crop would benefit from it there. 

It was in his habit to view all events in their darkest ways, but there were worse situations than the one Grantaire had found himself in. Enjolras had seen his feelings, and had reacted out of curiosity, rather than disgust. It may be an uncharacteristically naive thing to say, but men who got their own similar satisfaction were far less likely to make a police report. It was likely that he would not be expelled from Enjolras’s life, either, as he may even want those encounters to continue. There were stranger ways one would entertain themselves in this town, and Grantaire had made that arrangement with the merchant’s son before. What was there really for Grantaire to be upset over, that there was no love in it? How unpleasantly hopeful of him to even consider that element. He should be grateful for their mutual use, embrace the convenience and practicality, be glad for the entertainment. 

This was not what he had wanted when he first approached Enjolras. Perhaps it had been in the back of his mind, in seeking out the mysterious son pulled away from University. He had prodded at it then, and perhaps if he had gotten the signals he had made space for, he would have taken advantage of it. There had been hesitation that time in Enjolras’s room, but he had not been opposed then either. He supposed the only difference now was his own sentiments. They were rather effective in ruining things, making him so unhappy over a far better result than he might have feared. 

He heard the knock when it came, indicating someone’s presence at the front door. Grantaire would not admit to it, but he flinched at the noise, half believing he would turn and see Enjolras at the window yet again. That brought him back to a vague sense of consciousness, though he still felt rather vacant. It could be Enjolras yet, Grantaire knew, but at least there the responsibility of facing him fell to a servant instead of Grantaire himself. He would turn away any attempts to call, at least until he had collected himself more than this. Grantaire looked a mess, and he well knew it. 

“R?” Musichetta asked, peeking in. She had seen him some time this morning and done her best to offer comfort, but when Grantaire was in this sort of mood there was little effect she could have. He certainly had not communicated anything to her, and eventually she had given up and returned to her duties.

“Send him away.” Grantaire answered. If she had come then it was indeed someone calling for him. When Musichetta did not move, Grantaire was forced to focus on her more. She looked hesitant, not outright refusing him, but not going to obey either.

“They are quite insistent.” She said, face apologetic. 

The plural caught Grantaire’s attention. His paranoia leaped to great lengths as an immediate reaction, imagining a police force at his door, but he calmed it with his trust that Musichetta would speak more plainly if that was the case. Other than that, he could not be sure who would visit him in greater numbers than one, other than perhaps Bahorel and Feuilly. He cautiously grew curious.

“Fine.” He said. “But I will not be improving my presentation.” It was perhaps the boldest move of his entire life, save for perhaps kissing Enjolras. Musichetta glanced over him, displeased but ultimately unwilling to fight on it. She knew Grantaire when he grew stubborn, but that did not mean she approved of it. 

“You could at least stand.” She left, and Grantaire did not follow her advice. 

He was still sat on the floor, bottles and unused art supplies scattered about him, when the mysterious visitors were led in. Of everyone he might have expected, they had not been in his consideration. He opened his mouth to express surprise, but was beaten to the mark of speaking first. 

“Grantaire, what on earth have you done?” Courfeyrac exclaimed without preamble.

“Courfeyrac, please.” Combeferre said far quieter, following just behind.

Courfeyrac was angry with him, a fact that processed slowly in Grantaire’s mind despite the volume of his entrance. He struggled to process his confusion, both at their presence and motives. Had Enjolras told them? Were they angry with him for having crossed that boundary, for finally acting on his desires? Grantaire was left completely unaware of how to respond, not wanting to reveal anything that had not yet been said. He did his best to control his reply. 

“I had thought you were both departing early this morning.” He remarked with a forced neutrality. 

“We were meant to.” Courfeyrac was not tempted with conversation long, as he quickly returned to his directive. “You did not answer me. What have you done?” 

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre repeated. He had halted in the doorway, carefully taking in the sight before him while Grantaire and Courfeyrac spoke, but he now stepped in. “We do not know the circumstance. Look at him, an attack is not the right response here.” Grantaire laughed weakly.

“Am I that pitiful a sight?” He asked. Courfeyrac ignored him, turning his full attention on Combeferre. 

“I would know the right response if someone would tell me what has happened.” 

Grantaire observed from the floor, having still made no attempt to stand. So they did not know, or at least Courfeyrac did not, if he was to judge the reason for his anger being so easily moved onto Combeferre. Grantaire would imagine Combeferre had a guess at least, but had not shared it. Had they kept many secrets from each other before meeting him, or if this was something else to add to Grantaire’s guilty conscience? He certainly did not enjoy the level of animosity between them as Combeferre only met Courfeyrac’s words with silence. Courfeyrac, even more frustrated, rounded back on Grantaire. 

“There are very few people who are capable of having that deep an impact on Enjolras, and I can account for all their whereabouts during the ball save for yours.” The fierce light in his eyes reminded Grantaire of Enjolras, saying with conviction that this subject would not be dropped. 

But Grantaire did not answer him either, as he was unsure how to. He did not understand the specifics of what he was being accused of, or what effect he was supposedly responsible for. Did Enjolras regret their actions? The idea had not yet occurred to him, but was not impossible, and very nearly made Grantaire wish to cave in on himself in the sharpest needle of emotion he had felt in hours. He immediately tried to quiet it again. Perhaps it was not so extreme as that, and Enjolras was simply angry with him for vanishing. His avoidance had troubled Enjolras before, this could have added to those earlier frustrations. Surely Enjolras was intelligent to understand he had done it with the best intentions, as well as serving his desire to flee the scene. He had held no desire to make conversation afterwards. 

“I was with him.” He confessed. Courfeyrac removed his hat, tucking it under his arm as if to show he was prepared to settle in for a long interrogation. 

“Then you are able to offer an explanation?”

Had he been in better spirits, Grantaire may have been more tolerant of Courfeyrac’s manner, perhaps actually put in the effort to decrease it. As it was, he was far more in the mood to be contrary and frustrating, numb to all his emotions beyond the desire to not be looked at nor spoken to at that exact moment. He wished to at least think of some clever diversion, but he had none. He could only kick an empty bottle so it noisily crossed the room, and avert eye contact. 

“I resent the implication that I have done something to him. For all you would know, it was the reverse.” He protested weakly. To his surprise, it did succeed in softening Courfeyrac slightly, though his determined stance did not change. 

“Then I will be angry with him. But I would need to know.” 

Grantaire noticed then that Combeferre was suspiciously quiet. It confirmed Grantaire’s suspicions that he had his own idea of the events, and therefore felt less a need to push. Grantaire wondered if he would have come here at all if Courfeyrac had not halted both their progress and brought them here. It was… An unkind thing that Grantaire considered doing then, having already observed the tension between them. Should he bring attention to Combeferre, he would likely be free to retreat back into his misery. 

“What of you?”

The words were out of his mouth before he even finished thinking them, Grantaire having leaned slightly to see around Courfeyrac as he spoke as to leave no illusion to who he meant to address. Combeferre’s eyes flicked to him immediately, and Grantaire was sure he knew the betrayal for what it was. Grantaire felt guilty for cornering him, but met his eyes resolutely. It was not an apology, really, and Grantaire did not feel much regret. Combeferre answered hesitantly, having seen the trap laid out for him but unable to avoid it. 

“Enjolras has not told me anything either.” Courfeyrac made a sound of angry dismissal, the reaction Grantaire had anticipated.

“As if that would be necessary for you.” He said. The bitterness was strange to hear in Courfeyrac’s voice, but it was clear that this morning had pushed him beyond his tolerance of trusting in his friend’s silence, at least when he could see harm brought to his other friends. 

Grantaire watched the movement of Combeferre’s shoulders as he sighed. He bent down, taking the bottle off the floor. He placed it atop a stand Grantaire had intended to use for still-life arrangements. Grantaire wondered if this movement was Combeferre calming himself, or if it was a completely subconscious instinct. 

“Courfeyrac, I understand that you wish to help, but this is not our place to intervene. There is no use in being angry with me.” 

“There is nothing open for me to do other than be angry.” Courfeyrac responded. 

As close as Combeferre and Courfeyrac were, they were significantly different people. Courfeyrac desired to be involved in everyone’s business, forsaking politeness to find how he could best help in a way that his charisma made forgivable. Combeferre was perhaps unwillingly aware of all that went on, but was more inclined towards observation, and careful planning. He did not try to confront in the same way, working instead as a gentle guide through conversation, letting things happen more gradually. One might mistake him for passive, but it was not that either. Rather, it was patience. 

Grantaire had seen it in their policies as well. Combeferre would write essays, to inform the public and bring them to their side through those methods. Courfeyrac would speak with people off the street, making direct his cases and pulling them forcibly in, rather than waiting for their own action of reading or listening to a speech. Grantaire hardly knew enough to be sure if one method was more effective than the other. If Grantaire were to guess, he would think those drawn in by Combeferre would be more sure of their dedication to these new perspectives, but Courfeyrac’s tactics would bring faster results. History would show at least that they worked well together. Still, their methods would have to eventually conflict, as was their dissimilar nature. Grantaire was always skilled in causing ruptures of that kind. 

“I seem to be destroying a great many friendships as of late.” He observed quietly, not meaning to draw any attention to himself with the words.

He was clearly unsuccessful, as both men turned back to him at the noise. The words had a clear effect on both of them, expressions sobering and the aggravation fading. As Grantaire watched, they looked at each other in their way of silent communication, as if making some agreement to deal with their own conflict later, before returning to the purpose of their being here. Courfeyrac moved ahead, leaning beside Grantaire with none of the anger from before. It was obvious that he wished nothing more than to help. 

“Grantaire please, I am here as your friend as well.” He said. 

Grantaire appreciated the sincerity, he truly did. He appreciated that he had friends who wanted him to confide in him, and wanted to help him without any obvious personal gain. Grantaire did not have many figures like that in his life, and each one was a blessing. Still, their presence did not change the nature of his situation. There was no guarantee that they would not change their minds after hearing it detailed, and it was a sure thing that they would not understand the emotions he was experiencing. 

“You would not understand.” He said, repeating his thoughts. They may be worth trusting, but to confide in them would be a waste of energy. 

“I would.” The vehemence in Courfeyrac’s voice was unexpected, as was Grantaire’s hand being taken by him. He was reminded of when he had made that first confession, and Courfeyrac’s reaction then. His eyes were similar when Grantaire looked up into them. “I know I should have said something earlier, but I would.” 

His face likely did not offer much change from its vacant blankness, but that was not to say Grantaire was not surprised. It was not something Grantaire would have suspected him of, but he did not think he had misunderstood Courfeyrac’s meaning. His expression seemed to further confirm it, a mix of his usual boldness and fear. Maybe he thought Grantaire would be angry that he had not said anything, or would doubt the confession. Grantaire had certainly never met a man who would falsely claim himself so, and not even the most distrustful elements of his mind would entertain the idea of it as a lie for very long.

He had nothing much to say on it, but he tightened the grip between their hands in a brief pulse as confirmation. Courfeyrac smiled, but the fear did not leave him. Grantaire was certain it was because it was far more tied to the figure behind him rather than Grantaire. They had not exactly spoken in code, and Combeferre was sure to have understood it as well.

“But all of the women?” Having seen Combeferre surprised a small number of times by this point, Grantaire no longer believed him all knowing. Still, to hear him in such a state of shock was a rare event, and it left no space for any other emotion in his voice. Grantaire was sure Courfeyrac had been listening closer than him for it, too. 

“It is not all so restrictive as that.” Grantaire said, looking over Courfeyrac’s shoulder to watch his reaction. He could provide that validation at least, for having forced this. 

Combeferre was not obvious in the progression of his emotions. Enjolras or Courfeyrac could likely read them, but neither were facing him now. All that Grantaire could clearly understand was his turmoil, as if this fact had forced him to reevaluate a great many things. His response to Grantaire had been less dramatic than this, but he supposed they had not known each other the greater part of their lives.

“I as well.” 

This did not surprise Grantaire nearly as much, having at least entertained the idea before. Courfeyrac was not so prepared, dropping Grantaire’s hand to look at him in his own journey of surprise. Combeferre’s composure was long since lost, and he looked away from them both with a flush across his face. Courfeyrac was made unnaturally speechless. 

“What a collection we have made.” Grantaire said, observing them. He had given it a moment of silence before deciding that while they seemed to have much more to say to one another, they did not seem likely to say any of it now. It was left to Grantaire to shatter this silence, though he was less enthused as to how. 

It was fair trade that two confessions equalled at least one from Grantaire, as the scene before him was undoubtedly unbalanced. In his hopes of distraction, he had not even nearly anticipated being even more aggressively guilted into saying something. He did not think these two so callous as to make it a strategic move, but that did not make it any less effective. They had put so much trust in Grantaire to confide in him, he could at least offer them the same treatment. 

“I kissed him.”

That broke the two out of their suspended states of shock, though at the same time likely added to it. He imagined they were having a rather overwhelming morning, and he wondered how much more it would take before they simply ran out of energy to react, as Grantaire had. Perhaps sleep would replenish that energy, and leave him as something other than emotionally deadened. Grantaire was unsure he wanted to feel any more than what already caused discomfort under the surface, so perhaps he would not sleep tonight either. 

“And he did not respond well?” Courfeyrac asked, already preparing to offer comfort. There was something odd in his voice, though Grantaire simply assumed it residual emotion from before.

“Not exactly. He did instigate, after all.” 

Grantaire had never confessed someone else’s secret in this way before. He only did so now in the confidence that if these two would not betray him, they certainly would not do so to their fearless leader. Still, he felt uneasy saying it, as if this was not truly his story to tell. There had been no opportunity for him to lie, but for a moment he wished he had.

He expected the statement to cause astonishment, or worse, dismay, and perhaps send them back into the silent chaos from before. Despite these expectations, even Courfeyrac showed no great reaction. They seemed surprised by his words, yes, but not nearly to the extent he had envisioned. Thoughtful, if anything, would be how he would describe their expressions, though he could not fathom what those thoughts might be. Grantaire looked between the two, made further uncomfortable by this strange response.

“You do not look all that surprised.” He said. 

Courfeyrac absently tapped a finger against his chin, not hard enough to bring any redness to it. It was a habit of his when puzzling through something. The sound was nearly inaudible, and he gnawed his lip to complete the picture. 

“Enjolras was vague at the time, but he had asked us for advice-” 

“Why are you then unhappy?” 

Combeferre was unexpectedly loud in his cutting off of Courfeyrac, ringing slightly in his ears, and Grantaire hoped for a moment that their conversation was not too audible beyond these walls. It was the first he had felt truly aware of his surroundings, and his senses seemed to sharpen unpleasantly with that feeling. Grantaire winced away from it slightly, itching to drown out the sensations once again. Unfortunately, Courfeyrac was between him and the next bottle. 

“Forgive my crudeness,” He said, coughing at the taste in his throat, “But would you be happy as simply a willing body to the man you would follow to your grave? I love him, and he is only interested in entertainment. I think it fair that I retreat to lick those wounds for a moment, despite the frustrations of inconvenience it may bring him.”

While he had been targeting Courfeyrac’s breaking point, he had not been considering Combeferre’s in the same way. It was not that he had never seen it reached, the man had been forced to live with Marius long enough, but he still had not accounted for its presence in the conversation. He was forced into revaluation as he watched Combeferre’s jaw set to the side, and two fingers press at the bridge of his nose before walking over to sit on Grantaire’s other side. He looked far less sweet and pleading than Courfeyrac had. Had he been less inclined towards pacifism, Grantaire likely would have found himself struck aside the head.

“Grantaire, I am going to blame your own insecurities for that absolutely ridiculous logic.” Grantaire thought that rather unfair. “You know Enjolras. When would he ever be the type of man to do such a thing? You underestimate your importance to him.” 

“He has made it clear to me many times that where I do not have a use I am not wanted.” Grantaire answered. It should be obvious to all of them, as they had all been present each of those times. Grantaire had laughed each of them off, ignored Enjolras or risen to the bait and caused even more trouble. Enjolras enjoyed his presence, yes, so was it really so great a leap to think he would embrace finding other, more favorable uses from him? 

“In meetings, Grantaire, not his life.” Courfeyrac was watching Grantaire with some mix of horror and concern as Combeferre spoke. “Did he ever say as much? That you were entertainment?”

That was less easy evidence to find. Grantaire could recall the times he had claimed so, to Musichetta and several to Enjolras’s face directly. He had meant it much more at the beginning and he had been certain that by the time they went riding together Enjolras had not believed him at all. He could feel Combeferre watching closely, as if searching his memories with him and coming up equally empty. What conclusion was he meant to draw then? He did not think his suspicions grounded on nothing, perhaps these two were too biased in Enjolras’s direction. 

“When you first came here, it was in response to Enjolras’s behavior, was it not? Was he so greatly troubled?” 

Combeferre moved to answer him immediately, perhaps to place another stone on the weight of his slowly amounting pressure. Courfeyrac stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a shake of his head. It seemed a strange reversal of roles, as were the words he said. 

“That is not our information to relay.” Combeferre nodded, halted by him with a smile.

“I acknowledge now that our involvement was necessary, I had not thought Grantaire so caught up in his own fears as to make himself completely blind.” It was clear they were making some apology to one another, and perhaps Grantaire would find it endearing if it was not so unhelpful to him. He watched their exchange of soft expressions sourly. 

“If I want to know I must talk to Enjolras, I assume?” He asked, bringing their eyes back to him. 

“I think he has done enough chasing after you.” Grantaire would have to insist they were biased now. 

“That you certainly have reversed.” It had been Grantaire who pursued their friendship, that pushed it at nearly every turn. There may have been exceptions, certainly, but the evidence clearly leaned in his his direction. 

“Have I?” Combeferre asked, and Grantaire had the strange sense of being scolded despite the genuinely dubious tone. “Perhaps it is a mutual habit of running and chasing. Regardless, it is your turn. I do not think he would come after you this time.”

“I thought his pursuit was indefatigable, difficult as his goals may be?” Grantaire asked, choosing to contest his words for no good reason. Combeferre frowned at him again. 

“You are not a cause, and I would imagine Enjolras would tell you similarly.” 

“He would not ceaselessly pursue the attentions of someone if he found his actions unwanted.” Courfeyrac said, though speculatively. They all knew there was no confirmation of it. 

“As if anyone would not want them.” Grantaire said quietly. He then raised his voice to address the rest. “You will not at least warn me if I have made a greater mistake than I realize? I did not speak with Enjolras after, you would have me arrive there blind?” 

He thought it a fair question, but he was met with an unenthused look. Combeferre’s patience had not yet fully returned, it would seem, and he could clearly tell Grantaire still did not believe them. Even saying what he guessed were the right things would not get him past their judgement.

“I do not think us capable of enlightening you. We can only hope Enjolras is.” 

“I will give you some parting advice.” Courfeyrac offered, as a gesture of peace and also an indication of their departure. This was much more like his usual manner.

Courfeyrac seemed lighter somehow, though still saddened by the conversation with Grantaire. He supposed at least some of them had reached some resolution, Courfeyrac now being unhidden and no longer arguing with Combeferre. Combeferre too, beyond his annoyance, seemed to have lost an invisible degree of tension he had carried on his way in. Grantaire wished his own conflict had been resolved so quickly. 

“Your advice?” He prompted. 

“Do not wait too long, but let yourself sober first. I would advise early tomorrow, not a day more.” It was less advice and more giving Grantaire an inescapable timeframe, making it more difficult for him to put the meeting off. Grantaire resented him minutely for it, as he would have much preferred to return to his state of timelessness and avoidance. 

Perhaps it would be better for him to hear all his speculation confirmed, to more easily harden his heart against it. He did not believe any of the ideas Combeferre had attempted to guide him towards. Enjolras was a great and good man, certainly, but he was a man. His needs were not so different from Grantaire’s own, it was not impossible for him to seek to fulfill them in a new way. If anything, Grantaire had now convinced himself to be happy for this new place in Enjolras’s life. He had wished to be closer than friends, and now they were. It would be better than it had in his past, to have more than a fleeting friendship with his partner. Love did not need to be a priority, but even this was kinder than just convenience. 

Combeferre commented no further on Grantaire’s disbelief, taking the same leave as Courfeyrac. Their journey would probably be less easy now, for the time they had wasted here. Grantaire was glad they had, though he had hardly listened to them. Even if they were leaving now, he knew he had some allies out in the world. He could only hope at their quick return, as he was certain this town returned to normalcy would feel rather empty without them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse other than writer's block being a bitch. 
> 
> Apologies for potential typos, especially towards the end. I really wanted to post this as soon as I finished cause there was such a long gap. Have some C&C content as an apology. So much for only implying minor relationships


	18. Throats Bared

Grantaire suffered the pains of a great many emotions that next morning in what he could only assume was due payment for his previous numbness. It plagued his dreams with menacing vagueness, pulling him from sleep at some untimely hour before the sun had fully graced the sky. Grantaire seldom rose before ten when he controlled his own day, but this turmoil had his eyes opening well before that comfortable time. Normally he would only ever see this kind of light if he stayed awake through the night to see it, not from this other end. He could have gladly done without the sight if it would have spared him this emotional agony even an hour more. 

One of the worst sensitivities he had risen with was a cheek-burning embarrassment. What had he been thinking, receiving company of any degree of friendship in the state he had? Even when Enjolras had called on him, it had been more in Enjolras’s fault than his own that they were met so informally. He had teased him a bit, but even Grantaire had known not to protest when Musichetta told him to change. The actions of yesterday were far less easy to excuse. It would be horrifying to even those of loose sensibilities, and made Grantaire wish desperately to dissolve back into his sheets from the moment of his waking. 

Grantaire was the sort of man who could have a perfectly tied cravat even if he could not walk a straight line before him, and was rather proud of that fact. It was the way he presented his class, he supposed, and while his uniquely specific dedication was less than a principle, he rarely went against it. Grantaire’s social standing was not something he carried in a great deal of his character, nor did he particularly consider it when choosing any outfit, but he was in some ways still a gentleman. Not that he was very good at presenting so, it would seem.

That state of undress was a vulnerability he had not necessarily anticipated showing to them, an added flaw to his already imperfect image. It was strange to mind one error over the other in the grand scheme of things, but he had managed thus far to remain proprietous in this area to most. Musichetta had seen it all, having known him far before these hiding habits were created, and Grantaire Enjolras too had that knowledge of him. He had stripped down similarly to swim, but had hardly had a second thought of it at that time. Perhaps it was that he always felt exposed around Enjolras, or that they were already so untrue to most boundaries already. It was not entirely uncommon for men of his age to have seen each other so, he had heard stories on the coast of groups of friends swimming fully nude, but Grantaire largely reserved the secret of his unclothed form for the gentlemen of nightly encounters. His self respect was no great thing, but in aspects of decorum he at least made attempts. 

It was not that he did not trust Combeferre and Courfeyrac. If anything, this past interaction was further justification that he could put his faith in them. Their characters aside, however, his behavior was a shameful thing to look back on. They were both men of higher esteem than him, and while he was sure they were not the sort to look in any way downwards at him, Grantaire wished he had maintained at least some sort of a dignified guise. They knew the disorders of his heart, and had now seen it outwardly projected as well. Grantaire had no walls left to hide behind, and it gave him an unprotected sense that he did not enjoy. 

There was only one feeling stronger than his shame in the light of morning, though they certainly competed vigorously for attention. It was a small margin by which it won, but his anger at Courfeyrac for the time constraints he had placed around him was no small thing. What “advice” it had been, that slick fellow knew exactly what he was doing in giving Grantaire those words. At every second that moved past, he was bothered by the sense that he was running late for something, running out of time. It was a distraction that made it difficult for him to divert his attention elsewhere, the thoughts hanging just at the back of his mind regardless of activity. It made him restless, irritable, and he cursed Courfeyrac for it. 

There were uses to going to see Enjolras, certainly. Even he could admit that. Grantaire would have his thoughts confirmed, and would finally possess the evidence Combeferre had made him temporarily doubt to prove them to others. Perhaps he could reconcile Enjolras to his skill, despite the provided example, and fix whatever ill temper had brought those two to his door in the first place. In greatest luck, all things would be forgotten or settle into a new normal. Even if it did not, the conflict would be resolved and possible to move past. This was Courfeyrac’s method of direct address, so Grantaire could not be surprised that this was his idea of a solution. He knew Enjolras well, as did Grantaire, so he had to recognize that it was likely to work. Enjolras too favored quick confrontation, at least in most cases, and was not the sort of person who would cool down if something was left undealt with. In looking at this logic, there was no reason for Grantaire not to go. Other than the fact that he didn’t wish to, that is.

That hesitation was perhaps more responsible for his restlessness than Courfeyrac, in all truth. Grantaire did a great deal of pacing with that in mind, feet wishing to take him somewhere but mind trapping him into endless circles. The reasoning was there, of course, but he managed to be halted by his weak will each time resolve was met. What if Enjolras decided he had failed his test, and would not want him in that respect going forward? What if he did not want Grantaire in any respect, anger having finally been pushed too far? It was only a matter of time before Grantaire became more trouble than he was worth. He had been for his University, as well as his father. Grantaire was not yet sure he wanted to face that possibility in the flesh, to hear those words in Enjolras’s voice. It was hard to reach any resolve with that image in his mind.

The morning moved past him very slowly, but that strange sense of urgency made each moment of it a torture spent sitting down, standing up, walking and going nowhere. Courfeyrac had been so certain that waiting even a day more would be too late, and that conviction troubled Grantaire despite the fact that he did not quite understand it. He could not say what he would be too late for, only that he should probably trust that insight. It was a warning, in all likelihood, of Enjolras’s limits. Grantaire has been so sure of reaching them before, but no one had so blatantly tried to intervene those times, so perhaps in this way there was some difference.

What Combeferre had spoken on, of running and chasing, Grantaire still considered ambiguous nonsense. He could not even be properly motivated by his advice, as it seemed like such a blatant and willful misunderstanding of the situation. There were some elements of note in his behavior, he would confess, of a rigorous pursuit of information on Enjolras but attempts to flee whenever that attention was turned back on him. If he were to admit more, perhaps there were some similarities in his attempts to maintain a distant longing. His fleeing Enjolras’s physical reciprocation was hardly a fair case study, despite the trend, as he doubted anyone capable of enduring that environment with any other behavior. Still, this hardly fit their situation. 

Grantaire had not disliked the times Enjolras had come to find him in his retreat. They had often made things worse, looking at the endings of those interactions, but mostly due to Grantaire’s connection to him deepening at each step. Everything from grabbing Grantaire’s hand before he left the carriage to joining him in the corner at a ball had endeared him to Grantaire further, had kept them from parting ways when they perhaps were meant to. Enjolras was rather determined not to let Grantaire go on without him, despite each of his attempts.

No, that was hardly the correct phrasing. Enjolras would not be the one left behind in any respect. Those examples were often of Grantaire leaving Enjolras to his own pursuits, to the spotlight, to his causes. Enjolras was refusing to let him fall back, if anything, though Grantaire did not think himself capable of keeping that pace forever. He did not belong at the head of that race like Enjolras did. The man did not need a leaden weight like Grantaire weighing him down, pulling him further away from his goals.

But none of these thoughts fixed his current dilemma. Was it really to him to make a move this time, like some overly complicated game of chess neither of them had agreed to playing? Grantaire did not know the right square to choose, if it was. If Enjolras did not come after him, surely that meant he had no wish to see Grantaire, but he had the voices of Combeferre and Courfeyrac urging otherwise. He owed it to them to listen, after the ordeal of yesterday, but even they must have doubted him actually following their guidance. The expectations of him felt contradictory, and Grantaire despised it.

He did leave eventually, though he could not say what it was that finally broke him from the circling logic, and went without so much as a word to anyone about his whereabouts. That would remove any added expectation, and better yet would avoid questions. If Grantaire ended up at the swimming hole, no one was to know that wasn’t the intended location and he would not need to explain himself to anyone. He would end up where he did, and did not need to organize his mind in the process. Too many voices already had opinions on his actions, he did not need to raise that number.

There was no mystery to where his feet actually took him, despite these delusions. Like a compass pointed to due north, Grantaire was unsure he was capable of being drawn elsewhere. The moving whispers of a breeze through the grass followed him all the way to Enjolras, a quiet chorus on all sides only hindered by where the trees shielded him. Grantaire wondered what they would say, if it was words said at that low volume. If they would encourage him, or were calling for him to turn around. Why not add them to the list of perspectives, perhaps they at least would successfully get Grantaire to listen to them.

Grantaire was grateful that he was indeed let inside and not refused outright at the door, even if it meant his return to that odious little library. He had grown no fonder of the room, finding it just as stiff and stifling as he had in his first visit. It hardly let in any of the light from outside, and with Grantaire’s current circumstance he felt even more encased that usual. With such a severity of feeling he may as well have been a butterfly, or moth rather, pinned up to join the wall displays as confined as he was by decoration and space. He wondered how long Enjolras would leave him here to wait, or if he would even be met at all. Maybe he had died and an eternity of waiting here would be his hell. With how nervous he felt, he was certain it was more than enough of a torture for the devils to consider. 

How many of these texts that surrounded him had been read by Enjolras, had their spines lovingly or angrily held by him? Enjolras did seem the type to read books that made him annoyed. Grantaire could see his logic, about needing to know what he spoke on to properly dismiss and eviscerate them. There were so many titles he did not recognize, and while he had seen Enjolras take one or two that was hardly a confirmation of the greater ratio. Would fingerprints left in the dust tell him, as a sort of ghostly map? Or had all remnants of engagement already been lost to those that would seek to learn them. Would Enjolras tell him, if he asked? Give the elaborate opinion he was sure to have on each, and simply let Grantaire listen and poke at where he found a hole? It would be pleasant, he thought, peaceful. There would be no place for his current nerves there. 

Grantaire was on his feet as soon as the door opened, though it was only the same servant from before. His pleasant, insincerely apologetic smile told Grantaire the response far before the man voiced it, sending a cold and unpleasant feeling from the base of his skull to the front. Enjolras, even when he could not stand Grantaire, had never refused to see him. The curiosity had been too strong, or he had preferred to send Grantaire away with his own words, whatever it was. Simply, he had made the effort to come down each time. Grantaire had already stowed this possibility in making it past the front door, that if Enjolras had not instructed anyone to turn him away immediately there was no risk anymore. He had apparently overestimated Enjolras’s direct strategies. Perhaps their friends had been right in that something was different, and that very realization unsettled Grantaire further than anything else had so far.

“The young Master is currently indisposed.” The servant said. “He apologizes for the inconvenience, and asks that you be on your way.”

“I refuse” 

The second after speaking had Grantaire panicking at the impropriety of his own declination, as he had not even meant to say it and certainly never would have done so as tersley as that. It had been an instinctual response, unnerved and unprepared in response to the unexpected nature of Enjolras’s refusal. He could only hope his distress was not so easily evident on his face, as his heart jumped in his chest and his mind jumped to conclusions. If the man were any less a professional, he would have given him Grantaire an unfavorable look, or perhaps even called for other servants to escort him out more forcibly. Reparations were quickly needed for that eventuality to not occur, as at each moment passing in silence he looked closer to it. Grantaire’s felt disorderly and wrongfooted, but he did his best to form the right words. 

“Forgive me, but this cannot wait.” He said. To urge the servant into following through, though the next words were for Enjolras. “Tell him I have come to dismiss false hopes, and that I think it a conversation best had directly.”

The servant was visibly displeased at his stubbornness, but rather than challenge a gentleman he nodded and vanished again to deliver Grantaire’s false message. Well, there was some truth in it, as he did wish to dismiss his hope, but these words were far more for the purpose of sparking Enjolras’s curiosity and desire for clear conversation. They were likely to lure him down, even if in truth Grantaire would much prefer to have this said in any respect that was not face to face. It was Combeferre and Courfeyrac who had forced him here, not his own will. 

Enjolras was smart enough to understand what Grantaire meant to infer on their speaking subject, there could be little mystery to his purpose in arriving back here again. Still, there was some small risk that Enjolras thought this a purely social call, or that Grantaire would hope to leave everything unaddressed. This would resolve that misunderstanding, show that he still held interest, even if Enjolras was more reluctant. Perhaps this would actually give them the advantage, and avoid weak pleasantries or further miscommunication before either reached the true point. 

When the door opened yet again to show just the servant, Grantaire was sure he was to be dismissed. He felt very nearly like his heart was to collapse with the anticipation, or perhaps just with the emotion hanging on that turning away. The man’s face revealed nothing of his master’s verdict, bland as it was. Grantaire had rearranged nearly every small object in his vicinity in that brief interlude as way of distraction, mostly unconsciously, and he wondered if that too was visible to the servant and would further solidify his distaste for Grantaire. There had been little comfort to take from that action, though the minute movements were somewhat less erratic than his mind and in that way calming. In a similar focus on detail, he tried to read Enjolras’s response in the lines of the man’s face alone as his hand tapped beside a small gilded box.

He had not expected himself to feel quite so desperate when Enjolras inevitably pushed him away, but perhaps he had expected it to be a less passive separation. Maybe he did indeed want this done directly, to know Enjolras’s words as his own and not have them delivered second hand. There was such a thick layer of pretense and politeness in this system, and he craved his usual informality with Enjolras instead. Even if he was to beg, that would have to be disguised. What sincere sentiments could be easily passed through these social confines? It was worse than a courting couple with a chaperone. 

“The young Master has agreed to meeting you in the grounds, you will wait for him there.” The man said finally, as if resenting the fact that Grantaire’s behavior was to be rewarded. He stood guard at the door, as if to guarantee that Grantaire at least departed that small distance. Grantaire was reminded of those golem-like servants he had seen on his first visit, unblinking sentries. They had seemed to confine him in, but at least now he was to be expelled. 

It was an overwhelmingly unspecific command, but Grantaire would obey without question if it meant Enjolras would at least face him. He already knew where he would wait, the bridge being enough distance from the house to provide some privacy for their words, but fully visible so no time would be lost of Enjolras wondering where he was. This was a benefit to when he had pressured Enjolras into letting him explore, otherwise he likely would have only hovered just beyond the back terrace. 

He took off on his own, needing no servant as a guide, and grateful to the now stronger breeze and fast steps for cooling his anxieties somewhat. Enjolras was coming, that at least he knew. Grantaire had no idea as to what he would say, but there had not been any damage yet as to be so irrevocable that Enjolras would cut him off now. He had a bit more time at least, either to fix everything or, in more alignment with his personal history, make it far worse. 

The stone was cool and rough, an uneven terrain for the pads of his fingers as they traced along it when he first reached the base. The sound of the water below was louder than he remembered, but not overwhelmingly so. His very nearly undignified hurry meant longer for him to wait, surely, but he would survive it. Each step took him gently upwards onto the middle of the arch, before he leaned his forearms against the wall in attempted casualness and looked beyond his shoulder at the house. It was with an edge of strange excitement and fear that he wondered if Enjolras could see him from one of the windows. Would that be encouragement or a deterrent, if he were to be spotted as Enjolras got ready? The reflections of the sky barred him from returning any gaze, as each widow was instead a shard of the greying heavens. Even in greens he could not blend in with the moss around him entirely, and while he would not think Enjolras quite so attuned to Grantaire’s whereabouts as he was his, the man surely knew him well enough to recognize the distant shape. Perhaps they were looking at each other right that moment, without Grantaire realizing. What would Enjolras’s eyes hold, on that first gaze after all that had happened? Grantaire doubted it would match his longing. 

Grantaire’s emotions were disorganized, now even more so than they had been when he woke, and he pulled his gaze back down towards the moving water to try and steady himself. There was some chance everything would be fine, though Enjolras’s initial refusal did not suggest it. Perhaps he had been meant to read that signal as it was and leave, and was making things worse by then forcing this confrontation. Usually he would have jumped at such an escape plan, he was not the kind of man to stand his ground and face the issues he had caused, but as they had in the library his feet would not have it. They shifted side to side uneasily over the water below him, but they did not let him leave. Courfeyrac’s deadline still hung over him, with the threat of “too late” in the back of his mind. If even his body had decided this needed to happen now, he hardly had the power to resist. 

The sound of boots on the hard stone of the bridge some time later had him immediately turning, surprised at how close Enjolras had gotten without his notice. He had become too absorbed in watching each ripple and bubble of the water below, as well as his own mind, to be at full awareness. In habit he moved forward, but with equal speed Enjolras stepped back. Grantaire stopped himself, looking down at the space that was ever so slightly larger than they usually left between them. So this was how it was. 

“Mr. Grantaire.” Enjolras said, voice forcibly empty. He was not looking at him, instead focused on the stone wall at his side. 

Even if it had not been for that unusual movement, Grantaire would have instantly known something was wrong with Enjolras by just looking at his figure. The areas around his eyes were read with sleeplessness or something else, and he held his shoulders strangely. It was the same sort of awkwardness in his pose that Grantaire had seen him use when feigning politeness towards those he had no interest in, but just slightly off. This must have been what worried their friends, as Enjolras telegraphed in every aspect that he was not feeling himself. 

“Enjolras, are you alright?” Grantaire asked, incapable of saying anything else. Enjolras met his eyes briefly then, though all Grantaire saw in them was a brittle stiffness.

“You would ask me that? You?” Grantaire was stung slightly, and his heart rate began to change pace more quickly, making it difficult for him to settle into a consistent rhythm. 

“Recent events aside, I would still hope to consider us friends.” He said. Was he not even allowed to care for Enjolras in that respect anymore? 

“Yes, your message mentioned hope.” Enjolras turned away from him, facing the water as Grantaire had before. Grantaire did not yet mirror the pose, still too caught by Enjolras’s strange appearance to focus elsewhere. “You realize, Grantaire, that in all your derailments, your belittlements of what I and the others valued, I still never considered you cruel?” 

Grantaire blinked, confused. It was not the insult he had expected to be thrown his way, and Enjolras’s tone did not suggest that he was in any way attempting to be humorous. He felt as if he had succeeded in accelerating their conversation with his summons, but in doing so had somehow missed all the connecting points that had led them to this one. If anything, it seemed a rather unprompted attack.

“You think me cruel?” Enjolras exhaled sharply, sounding as if he was prepared to argue. Grantaire imagined some of the rigidity in his form was an expression of restraint, and to prove that no raised voices came. 

“Your phrasing, to ‘dismiss false hopes,’ I would not know what else to call it.” Enjolras said, equally measured as before. There was the smallest of tremors in the word dismiss, but Enolras corrected it so quickly that Grantaire was sure he had imagined it. 

This was not nearly as bad as he had envisioned. If anything, it calmed Grantaire slightly. So Enjolras must resent him for depriving them both of this opportunity for more intimately shared company. Enjolras had taken the hopes Grantaire mentioned to be his, not Grantaire referring to his own. This problem at least could be easily resolved, as he had since become willing. Grantaire smiled in relief, though it was hardly a happy expression, and moved to match Enjolras. It placed them shoulder to shoulder, with that overly large gap still between them. 

“Perhaps you have misunderstood me.” He explained, making himself sound cheerful. He would likely need to sell his interest, after all, having run away the last time. Even if he had done it meaning to protect Enjolras, it hardly looked encouraging. “I have no opposition to a physical agreement.” 

A strange noise came from Enjolras, somewhat similar to that of a laugh caught in his throat by a cough and entirely unexpected. He rocked back slightly, arms fully extending before he brought himself back. From his profile alone Grantaire could not understand the emotion he was expressing, but he did not think Enjolras seemed overly excited by Grantaire’s proposal. He had mistepped yet again, it would seem, and even worse than before if he were an accurate judge. How was it that he could never accurately judge Enjolras’s expectations? It left him trapped this way far too often. 

“This is my punishment, for acting so quickly.” Enjolras was speaking more to himself, the words falling downward into the water with his tucked chin, but they were still audible. He shook his head, brow pinched and low. “I had such confidence that I understood you, but perhaps if I had used words instead of actions to pursue my beliefs I would have seen enough to stop before this point.” Grantaire’s hands had gone cold, from the breeze or the proximity to water he could not be sure.

“So you regret it?” Enjolras looked at him, only briefly, but his eyes said more than enough.

“How could I not? It made the imbalance in emotional investment too clear. You would think me content with a physical arrangement after that?”

Grantaire had anticipated this outcome, had planned for it even. It should not have hit him as hard as this, knocking the air from his lungs in the same way that being hit against the floor in a fight did. It was not his preferred result, of course, but he had known it was the most likely one, so his reaction was excessive. The gift of cynicism was to always expect the worst as to never be disappointed. Grantaire had let his expectations reach too high, and was now feeling the result. He understood why he and his kind were so dedicated to avoiding the experience, working through the emotions now caught in his throat. If he could not even do this for Enjolras, was any of the rest salvageable?

“No, I suppose not.” He responded quietly. 

Neither of them spoke, letting the only sound be that of the moving water. The space between them felt larger than ever, as if they were fully on opposite banks and not just on slightly different sides of the bridge’s peak. If Grantaire wished to leave now, he probably could without a further word from Enjolras. Just simply walk off to his side and head back to his own house, ending it all there. Grantaire wondered what would look a lonelier sight, they divided in this way, or Enjolras left here alone. 

Enjolras had confessed it to him many times, how few he felt he had to support him. Even Grantaire had those who he could confide in, though it was a fairly new realization, where as far as he knew Enjolras did not. For all that Grantaire questioned how much he truly mattered to Enjolras, even he could recognize that not many held a position as close as he. It was because he had forced himself there, for the most part, and out of convenience for the rest, but he thought it at least fair to give Enjolras the choice of whether or not he was to be removed completely. As he had said, it would be Enjolras left alone, where Grantaire had some arms he could run into if he so wished. Jehan had not yet left town, and Musichetta was a forever constant. Even Combeferre and Courfeyrac were a letter’s distance away. He would keep them in his mind as a comfort during Enjolras’s answer.

“Do you wish for me to leave, or to never see me again?” He offered once his voice had the strength to. Perhaps it was self-destructive to make the suggestion himself, to place it in Enjolras’s mind if it was not already there, but in asking first he could at least have some control of the situation. Enjolras had taught him nothing if not the power of questions. “I cannot wholly promise it, in a town of this size, but I can make the effort” 

“You would take that action so easily?” 

Grantaire was unsure what Enjolras wished him to say, and once again his voice was far too blank for him to guess. Was this a test of his dedication, where he was meant to say he would stay by his side, or a test of Grantaire’s feelings in the opposite respect, to see if he could successfully put them aside? He felt trapped, stuck between answers while his heart did its best effort to constrict itself that it could. Of course he would not take it easily, he would rather part with a limb, but he doubted that was what Enjolras wished to hear. Enjolras seemed to take his silence as its own reply, sighing in Grantaire’s periphery. 

“Was entertainment really all it was, then?” 

Grantaire paused, confused yet again at the jump. Was this how Enjolras felt speaking to him, that “changeability” he always referenced? Grantaire’s tactic was usually used to avoid diving deeper, but it would be like Enjolras to do the opposite. Grantaire was once again outpaced, left disoriented and unable to track the progression. It was a dangerous move, he knew, but he tried to be like Enjolras and simply ask. 

“Was what?”

The anger flushed up into Enjolras’s face quickly, pushing off from the wall and turning on Grantaire with an attack hidden in the curl of his lip. He did not advance at all, or Grantaire was sure he would have been the one retreating this time, but that in no way diminished the level of his intensity. The hair about his head was tied back, but the breeze still managed to pull strands of it messily across Enjolras’s face. His restraint had reached its limit, it would appear, and it left Grantaire in very close proximity to his fury.

“This!” Enjolras exclaimed, gesturing roughly between them. “Do not do me the disrespect of refusing to even acknowledge what I mean.” 

“Enjolras, I really do not-”

Enjolras did not give him the chance to finish. He had begun speaking quickly, throwing accusations out into the air as a splotchy red color came to his cheeks. Grantaire felt himself entirely barrelled over, swept off in a chaotic current in a direction he could not predict and far faster than any of the previous jumps. It would be a miracle if he even had a moment to surface for air, as it felt like not only his words had been interrupted, but each attempted breath as Enjolras spoke more. 

“I thought you to be playing about, joking each time you said, but that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? I was a diversion, something for you to toy with and keep boredom at bay. I knew that was how this had started, but there were so many times I thought I felt something more from you, where you drew something more from me.” Enjolras’s eyes left him, looking down as if the target of his anger had moved from Grantaire to himself. “Was that why you left so readily, you had finally figured out my mind and lost interest?” 

Grantaire was mute, opening and closing his mouth with no reply meant to release in the action. The situation had turned on him so quickly, and not even someone as talented in the art of speaking nonsense with so little thought as he could easily form a response. Enjolras, frustrated still, ignored his reaction. 

“I could see from the other side of the grounds that you do not want to be here, so I imagine Combeferre and Courfeyrac insisted.” Grantaire did not know how Enjolras could read that much, but not understand the rest. “You are released from whatever they held you to. Goodbye, Grantaire.”

He pulled away then, having rotated sharply on his heel to quickly descend. His feet would soon from the bridge back on to his side of the bank, and then he would be gone in that way that Grantaire had envisioned doing before. Grantaire watched him a moment, inactive and blank-minded with his inability to make sense of it as he watched Enjolras go. It was only when he saw him reach the grass, boots pressing down the area that before them had been spared many years of trampling, that any response was pulled from him. 

“Wait, Enjolras please.” 

With more speed than he had thought himself capable of, Grantaire had crossed the growing gap and caught hold of Enjolras’s sleeve to close it completely. It was the nearest they had been to one another since that night, since they had pressed their lips and bodies together and misunderstood one another so thoroughly. Grantaire released him just as hastily, a sharp retraction that brought that safe space back between them for his own protection as well as Enjolras’s. He had no right to force Enjolras to stay, to endure the conversation or Grantaire’s touch any longer than he wished, but Grantaire had so much more to say and if they ended now he doubted he would ever get the chance to say it. He needed time to collect his thoughts, and did not want to lose Enjolras to his difficulty in articulating them. 

By some miracle Grantaire did not deserve, Enjolras did not immediately take off when released. He turned back to give Grantaire a look heavily weighted with distrust, the arm he had touched pulling closer to his body in a move Grantaire doubted was a conscious one. He held his ground and went no further, despite his stance so clearly showing that he wished to. Enjolras looked near to an injured animal, unsure if Grantaire was to bring aid or further pain. Grantaire supposed that was a fair fear, as he could still not find the right words and may easily cause unintended damage. As he could not yet steady his heart, he had no hopes in making his tongue clear.

Enjolras would leave if Grantaire did not think of what to say, this much he was sure of. Grantaire’s eyes moved up to the house that loomed behind Enjolras’s small, angry figure, shivering at the thought of potential eyes. Half of this mess had been created by them not being careful before, he would not repeat that mistake.

“This is not the right place for this conversation.” He said, flickering his gaze back and forth. “I am not trying to be cruel, Enjolras, but not here.”

There must have been something in his face that got Enjolras to agree even to that, as he did not protest when he began moving again and Grantaire followed. There was no way he was unaware of it, as Grantaire was behind him but in no way disguising his presence, so he could only assume Enjolras had meant to lead him. He was too worried of trying to ask again and what response that might bring, so he was forced to take the silence as agreement. They headed back to the house still, which was hardly their safest option, but it was likely that Enjolras knew where in the house the servants were likely to be at this hour. Grantaire could convince himself to trust Enjolras’s ability to keep their conversation unheard. 

Like on his first visit to Enjolras’s bedroom, Grantaire felt the path they followed an unintended exploration of Enjolras’s confines. The rooms were rather repetitive in their use and disuse, and having the furniture covered in dusty sheets certainly calmed the decor from the level of opulence seen in the library and dance hall. It looked just as abandoned as they had that night, again reminding Grantaire of how lonely Enjolras’s life was here. Even calling on his new friends was a risk, with each visitor likely being listed and given back to his parents. Grantaire himself had likely already been blacklisted. He still had never asked Enjolras if they had banned him. Enjolras had made no indication of it, but in his situation he would be unlikely to. 

All things considered, Grantaire would be grateful to be seen in the horse stables, so he had little to complain of when he followed Enjolras into a room of tables and chairs with dusty sheet covers. Clearly if the servants did not even come to clean this room, it was one of the places they were least likely to be disturbed. Grantaire wondered at the room’s original purpose, as the covered collection of furniture made no clear indication.

“Do you have any memories in this room?” He asked, scratching a fingernail over the sheet threads as he sat at one of the tables. The texture produced a small sound, likely inaudible to Enjolras across from him.

“Hiding from my tutor under the sheets.” Enjolras answered. “I can’t recall it ever looking different than this.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but smile at the thought of a young Enjolras, ill-behaved as ever, finding refuge in these white tents. Would Enjolras have hidden away here giggling at his own cleverness, or was it premeditated enough for him to have a book or other entertainment on hand? Perhaps if they had met more as children, Grantaire may have even been here to play with him. It would be a lighter air than the one between them now, with the fully grown Enjolras moving to sit across from him, inexpressive and stiff. He must have been watching the smile both rise and fall on Grantaire’s face, though his eyes only lingered in small increments. 

“I imagine you had a reason?” He asked, knowing it had to be a more exciting answer than Enjolras simply wishing to avoid classes for the day. Grantaire in his own youth would have been more inclined towards that laziness. 

“He wanted to scold me for saying “good” when I learned about the execution of King Charles I.” 

“You would speak ill against the dead?” Grantaire half teased. For a moment it felt like all their conversations had used to, or at least how a weak imitation of them would feel. Grantaire hoped it would do some service in easing the tension between them. 

“Am I to be respectful of all bad men in history simply because they have died before me?” Enjolras asked, also taking on the smallest lilt of humor. “If that is all it takes to be absolved of sin, then heaven must be a very crowded place.” 

Grantaire looked down, knowing where they would usually chuckle while comfortably blasphemous with one another, but not quite feeling capable of it. Their hands were not near to each other on the table, but Grantaire found himself momentarily distracted by them regardless. He carefully tucked each finger of his hand into a fist, wondering if the slightly increased distance would make it easier for him to focus. At least they were both closer than they had been before, as equal blessing and curse as that was. Grantaire was still not sure whether he was to be happy with the recent revelations or not. 

“Forgive the small talk, I needed a moment to collect my thoughts.” He smiled, but Enjolras made no attempt to return it. That small flash of enjoyment had disappeared quickly. 

“Say what you wish to say, Grantaire.” Enjolras said, sounding tired. “Then let this be done.”

It was an easy order to follow in theory, but when had Grantaire ever been good at speaking the truth, particularly when it was a dangerous one. There were always far easier things, like guiding the conversation away to less meaningful topics, or actively speaking the opposite of what he should. He wished to do so now, but imagined Enjolras would have little patience for him continuing to blather on. Grantaire knew he was the reason they were in this room, he had asked for the opportunity to speak, but he was still so frightened. Even now, he could be misunderstanding, willfully mishearing Enjolras to compose what he wished to. Or even if he was not wrong, and he understood perfectly, what was he to do then? Was he really worthy of the attention Enjolras would give him, important enough to take a place at his side? There would be great consequences to any way he spoke, great pains for each answer. He was far too cynical to simply embrace this bright possibility as it was presented to him. 

“Would you even want to be loved by me, really?” Grantaire asked. His heart was at a far different temp than his voice, but it managed to be strong. “You know me, in all that I am. I am apathetic, disruptive, crude. What use do I have to you beyond a friend, which I have done a rather horrible job of being to distress you so, or a messenger, a role I am rarely even needed to fill. You think I would make a better lover than I have a friend? Because I certainly do not have that faith in myself. You have others in town now that could easily replace me, those better and more caring than I. What purpose could I serve to be worth keeping in your life that would not be better done by any other man?”

They were being careful with one another, had been since they first walked through one of the servant’s doors and come up the stairs. It was likely for this reason that Enjolras only sat and listened, not reacting verbally the same time his expression changed. The face across from him had gone sour not halfway through his speech, holding even more horror and disgust than Courfeyrac’s had the day before. Grantaire heard an echo, with that look, of Enjolras insisting he was no measure of value, of worth. He supposed it was a similar thing that he expressed now, similar fears he had held on to with only the words changed.

“A purpose.” Enjolras repeated the word again. “A purpose, Grantaire?” 

Grantaire had been sure this was to be the start of another outburst or lecture, already changing his stance in preparation for it, but none came. Instead Enjolras’s gaze took on that calm, curious edge that showed he had formed a theory, a question he wanted to know the answer to. Grantaire attempted to be bold, an easy going and confident disguise as he much preferred to have under this kind of observation, but having spoken those words alone left him shaking slightly and therefore not quite capable of consistent focus. Perhaps the tremors were even felt by Enjolras across the table, though he could hope that they were not. Enjolras made no comment either way, with the entirety of his intense focus resting on Grantaire’s face alone. He stood quietly.

Grantaire was now the frightened animal, tense and afraid of Enjolras’s actions as he made a slowly telegraphed journey from his chair to kneel beside Grantaire’s own. He kept Grantaire’s gaze the entire route, but did not make any move to touch him directly. His hand instead rested on the table, supporting his stance as he looked at Grantaire cautiously.

“When I first came here you were a nuisance, then a lifeline. Later still you became the only thing that made this place feel anywhere near to a home. There has been no one else who has affected me in the way you have, who has challenged and captivated me. I know you, Grantaire, and I care for you in a depth that surpassed use long ago. There is no role to be filled, but even if there was it could be open to no other.” Enjolras’s words were slowly and clearly said, as if to ensure that Grantaire heard them even across such a small distance. The distrust had not left him entirely, but he looked pained, too, if Grantaire was to let himself think so. “To think that you are in any way disposable or replaceable to me, R, I cannot even bear to hear it. Regardless of what you may feel for me, I would not have you thinking my adoration is conditional.” 

Grantaire’s face had gone wet, tears leaking through his lashes before he had even noticed their birth and destroying any image of casualness he might have had. Enjolras continued to watch, close and analytical, not wiping them away nor cruelly revelling in them. Just watching. That marble facade Grantaire had been so dedicated to cracking slowly took over his expression, hiding away the pain and replacing it with detachment. It was clear that he had more to say, and that he did not want his own feelings to tamper with the words. Perhaps it was easier to disguise himself when he was not speaking, as Enjolras was so naturally prone to direct honesty, and this pause was more for his own benefit than Grantaire’s. If anything, his efforts proved that he was in no way unconcerned with the results of his study, as no one who was would need to exert this much energy in removing himself. An uncontrollably ragged breath loudly stuttered in Grantaire’s throat, filling the silence against his will. Enjolras swallowed, as if feeling the same sensation after hearing it.

“What you may wish to do is of your own free will, this is nothing I can force onto you. I am telling you plainly now that I have no expectations of you, nor a belief you need to fill, but I would ask, if you would let me.” He studied Grantaire’s face yet again, going from eye to eye. “You alluded only to your idea of my sentiments, not your own. Nothing needs come of it, but please tell me, R, if you care for me in the same way.”

Enjolras may tell him, of course, that there were no expectations, but Grantaire knew that to be untrue. Enjolras had never once asked a question that Grantaire had not been compelled to answer honestly, so what other outcome could he have planned? When Enjolras asked, he would be answered and answered truthfully. Enjolras likely did not even consciously think it, but Grantaire knew the idea was there. Marble or not, Grantaire knew Enjolras as well. Not even marble could hide him that thoroughly. The expectation was still there. 

“No.” Grantaire answered. 

It was likely the only lie he had ever told Enjolras, even if it was only partly one, and he watched as every aspect of Enjolras’s slowly built shield crumbled. 

“I am so sorry. Christ in Heaven, forgive me I can’t say what I was thinking.” Grantaire, unlike Enjolras, immediately reached forward to rub away the tears that fell, as if that would in some way heal his actions. They were both crying now, messy and improper beyond belief, and Grantaire was panicking. He had made Enjolras cry, had caused that suffering for no reason other than his own selfish protection. He really was cruel, it would seem. Grantaire struggled even to summon humor, his most trusted diversion, in his distress. “I had to remind you of my horrible habit of lying as well, remember how much you hated it when we first met? I misspoke, forgive me.”

“No, you did not.” Enjolras still sat there, letting his cheeks be cradled and wiped at, but he did not allow Grantaire to hide. Grantaire swallowed his next words, before looking down and nodding. 

“No, I did not.” His hands stopped their scrubbing before slowly sliding down to Enjolras’s shoulders, catching on a bit of his hair. They did not go farther than that. He could not explain it, but he did not have it within his power to let Enjolras fully out of his grasp. “I love you, can you say the same?”

Enjolras had calmed beyond those initial tears, and while he had no dramatic reaction to Grantaire’s confession, Grantaire was close enough to see his eyes brighten. There was not surprise, exactly, but Grantaire did not know how else to describe the look. With Grantaire’s framing, his words needed a response, but Enjolras waited some time to give it. Grantaire did not know if that hesitation was because he was unsure, or if he did not think Grantaire deserved to hear the answer, but he struggled to make himself patient. 

“Do you think, because I am dedicated to the cause, I do not have room in my heart to love?” Grantaire shook his head vehemently. Even his deepest insecurities would never suspect Enjolras incapable, not when the man loved so much already. 

“No, for I know all of our friends are held there.” He assured. This at least could be said in complete confidence. He was under none of those illusions Enjolras feared, of him as this distant unfeeling being. The tears had done away with that completely, if any misconception had remained. 

“Then why would you be different?”

“Am I?” 

Neither of their questions had easy answers, but Grantaire had at least succeeded in pushing the pressure off onto him. Enjolras was unable to look away, with Grantaire bracketing him as he was, but he could see the muscles moving in Enjolras’s chin indicating that he wished to. He could break free easily if he wanted, but he made no attempt to. They had locked each other into this interaction now, asked too many questions and pulled each other too close. No matter the outcome, they were now far enough gone that there would be no return to their dynamic of before. 

“This language is insufficient for how I feel for you. I have said before that I do not think love a thing that could exist before a relationship has started, but then I had never suspected the nature of affections growing alongside friendship.” Grantaire’s hands tightened incrementally on Enjolras’s shoulders, and Enjolras exhaled slightly as if to acknowledge their weight. “I would not know the word for it, but even if it is not yet love, understand that what you mean to me is in no way lesser.” 

Grantaire could see it, if he let himself, in Enjolras’s face and in every inch of his figure. When he had run that night, it had been because he could not face the affections he thought each gesture empty of. In the hand that came up to grasp his own, still holding fast on Enjolras’s shoulder, the very tightening of the fingers was a promise. It was Enjolras, made to make the first move again, to be brave where Grantaire cowered back, but in no way resentful. Pursuing him just as Combeferre had said, like Grantaire had when they first met. How much had Enjolras been able to say, when at each time Grantaire had buried himself in his own insecurities and ignored him? This was not the first time he envied the man’s bravery, even if he was close enough to see the fear that hid behind it. 

“I want to trust you, but my mind is a traitorous place.” He warned. He had no way of promising that he would not be fooled again, pulled into his own suspicions and turning Enjolras’s words on them both. He closed his eyes, offering a rare apology. “I have brought you pain because of this, and I am sorry.”

“No more pain than you have brought yourself, I would think.” The hand tightened on his own again, pulling it down over Enjolras’s heart as Grantaire met his gaze again. Enjolras pushed further, gentle but just as determined to know as he had been before. “Grantaire, what is it you want?”

He had given Grantaire so many chances, all of which he had missed or shied away from, yet here he was giving him yet another. Grantaire wanted so much, so much that he had convinced himself he could never have. Was he really to believe he could have it now? Enjolras had asked him a question he needed to answer, and this time he was fairly certain Enjolras deserved the truth. Every conclusion, or fear really, that Grantaire had considered fact was now being contradicted by this man before him. Enjolras was gentle, he was harsh, and he was good. He was flawed and on his knees beside him and more important to Grantaire than the air he breathed. As much as it still frightened him to say it, there was really only one answer he could give. 

“I want to love you, and be loved by you.” He said, voice uneven and raggedly genuine. “To be unafraid of the future and society, and to see all your great hopes for change achieved.” 

This was not any easy path for either of them. Those consequences Grantaire feared had not yet disappeared, those shackles that any two men who tried to love each other in this age faced still hung over them. What he wanted was not necessarily what would be. There would be pressure on Enjolras to marry, judgement on their proximity to one another and Grantaire’s influence if he did not. In any future they would not be able to escape pain entirely. But, there was a small, hopeful look on Enjolras’s face, a look of relief and tentative happiness, and Grantaire wished for nothing but to treasure it and watch that happiness grow in Enjolras’s heart and his own. Perhaps the sense of requited affections truly was worth that suffering, and Grantaire was becoming more and more willing to find out. 

“You will find me wanting similarly.” Enjolras said. 

This was something they wanted. Not out of convenience, not as a practical arrangement, but as part of the bond they had formed with one another. Enjolras cared for him, as he cared for Enjolras. The words hardly mattered, he had always known Enjolras to be slower in the making of his relationships, and would not rush him now. These were things he could convince himself of, would convince himself of. For Enjolras, he too would let himself hope just that small amount. It was foolish and dangerous, but Enjolras deserved someone who could be brave for him this once at least, who could cross the divide between them. 

“Enjolras,” His untethered hand came back to Enjolras’s cheek with none of the rush it had held before. The tears had dried, but they left a salty residue in their place. “Enjolras, may I?” Enjolras tightened his hand over Grantaire’s own, and gave a small nod.

He had quite nearly forgotten the feeling of Enjolras’s lips against his, despite how vivid a memory that would seem to be. Grantaire had been so rushed then, so distracted by his own thoughts and everything around them that their soft warmth was very nearly a new experience. It was different, too, that with him on a chair and Enjolras on the floor, to have the height advantage, but it was quickly fixed when Enjolras came up onto his knees and placed them on equal footing as he deepened the kiss. The new angle made it feel new even again, and Grantaire began to suspect he would never tire of these experiences, even in repetition. 

“I think you will have some new memories of this room after today.” Grantaire said, breaking them apart with a smile. 

He was unnaturally content, happiness having finally won its victory and consumed all other emotion. Enjolras pursued his mouth again for another small kiss, inhibited somewhat by Grantaire’s teeth, before moving back and pressing their foreheads against one another. He was struggling to bite back a smile of his own, catching his bottom lip to prevent it, and only causing Grantaire to smile more. 

“You still wish to talk? I thought we had finally reached past that.” He pressed his forehead against Grantaire’s with slightly more force to make his point. Their noses brushed as Enjolras went thoughtful. “What if you had kissed me then? I had thought you were going to.” 

With the nature of their position, Grantaire could easily guess at the time to which Enjolras was referring. He would certainly have preferred the bed now, but would still say he was glad nothing had happened then. With how disastrous it had become with him in a mostly sober state, he could not imagine the result of him attempting anything when he was as drunk and fragile as he had been then. He may have hurt Enjolras far worse than he already had, wrecked their relationship beyond even this laborious repair. As hard as it had been for them to reach this now, it was likely as good as it could have possibly been by this way. 

“I did not wish to force anything on you.” He said, stroking through Enjolras’s hair, gently removing the black ribbon that held it back. It was a revoltingly fond gesture, and Grantaire found himself enthralled as Enjolras leaned into his touch. He wondered if this awe would ever cease. 

“Nor did I want you to do anything under the alcohol’s influence and not your own.” Enjolras pulled back and scattered a few more kisses across his face, like droplets of rain falling from the sky. “I am certainly glad to have us now free of misunderstandings and substances both.” He said between them. 

Grantaire felt his mood sink almost at once, that joy very quickly usurped, and he lightly pushed at Enjolras’s chest to move him away. Enjolras went easily, face quickly turning to concern at the change in Grantaire’s manner. Grantaire too was loathe to stop them, but as they had already spoken so much, what were a few more words thrown down between them? Grantaire did not know if he would survive Enjolras changing his mind about him now, but it would probably be better done now than any further in the future. 

“I drink, Enjolras. That is unlikely to change.” 

“I will help you no longer need to.” Enjolras looked determined and sure of his words, but Grantaire still would not release the subject, pushing him back again when he tried to lean forward. 

“You cannot go into this expecting to fix me.” He held firm. “I am not sure it is possible.” 

“Of course it is, R, because you are not broken.” His hands placed themselves on Grantaire’s knees, to assure Grantaire that his words were not being too easily dismissed when he opened his mouth to react. “There is nothing I can make you do, but I would support and help where I can. I know who you are, and I would still want this.”

While Grantaire still doubted, he could at least be grateful in Enjolras’s so now apparent faith in him. He could not guess at how he had earned it, what actions he might have taken to gain this dedication. The reverse of course he understood. Enjolras was an easy man to follow, and while a less easy man to love Grantaire was still more than willing to do it. They would likely never agree on this, nor the millions of other things they had contention over, but Enjolras wanted to be in his life despite all that, and he in his. It was something to marvel over, that they could form this connection despite all the elements of their characters discouraging it. If Grantaire was an optimistic man, he would say it showed the strength of their foundation, Grantaire as himself was far less sure what to call it. 

It was easy to pull Enjolras into his lap, particularly as Enjolras quickly caught on and eagerly did half the work himself. It was rather uncomfortable to have someone’s full weight straddled across his thighs in this way, but the suddenly much larger array of contact provided a quick distraction. Enjolras was everywhere, warmer and brighter than the sun against him, yet at no point did Grantaire get any chance to feel inferior, with how much affection Enjolras showered over him. The warmth was shared between them equally, two stars kept so close as to be nearly indistinguishable.Enjolras was expressive, unrestrained and as honest with his body as he was with his words, now that Grantaire understood them both, and he would be glad to be lost in their light. 

Grantaire parted Enjolras’s lips with his own and mumbled his name, his first name, into them and felt Enjolras shiver. There had been little opportunity to call each other that informally, and when Grantaire heard his said in return his heart stuttered with the intimacy of the exchange. The tremors provided an easy transition into small, more intentional movements as well, rocking together slightly. Enjolras made another muffled noise, though if it was intended to be any word Grantaire could not have guessed it. 

They pressed even closer somehow, Grantaire’s hand snaking around the small of Enjolras’s back and Enjolras pushing Grantaire as far back into the chair’s cushion as it could give. It felt more like an embrace than a trap, an understanding of the word consummate and its sister, consume. He felt hands fisting the fabric of his clothes on his back, completing the embrace.

Enjolras pulled back sharply and sneezed. While thankfully turned away from Grantaire’s face in release, it was still a rather jarring change of pace that left Grantaire with a sense of vertigo and confusion. Enjolras did not look particularly happy to have been stopped again either, holding the back of his hand to his nose with a stern sense of commanding, in attempt to halt any following efforts by his nose. They both watched each other a moment in shock, processing the interruption. Once it had, Grantaire could not help but laugh. Enjolras glared at him with annoyance and embarrassment, but Grantaire knew again that the hand hid a smile. He could feel the laughter in Enjolras’s chest easily enough. 

“The dust covers.” Enjolras explained when he had caught his breath again, pulling back the hand that had been on Grantaire’s shoulder to show the greyed layer. They had both been too involved in their own minds for this issue to occur to them before, and had both made the mistake of leaning back into the dusted chairs. He could not imagine the state of his back, only praying that his coat was ever able to recover. Skin could be more easily cleaned, but cloth was always so finicky. It was more the servant’s issue than his, but he had heard them explain what a pain it was on more than one occasion. 

With the idea that train of thought gave him, Grantaire traced a finger upwards and placed it on his target, tapping there several times. He could see in Enjolras’s face the second he understood him, realized what Grantaire meant by pointing to his Adam’s apple with such marked intent. A flash of desire went through his eyes, a different sort of fire than the one Grantaire was accustomed to, but certainly not an unfavorable alternative. A similar sensation began burning low in Grantaire’s stomach in response, making his skin feel overly hot and sensitive in a way that would not be resolved in the shedding of layers. Grantaire brought his other hand up as well, they both resting on the fabric there before Enjolras offered him more quiet words of encouragement.

This was opposite in every way to how they had been by the swimming hole, with Grantaire absent minded and quick in the doing up of Enjolras necktie. This time he went slow, deliberately watching Enjolras’s face as he suntied the cravat with agonizingly small movements. The skin of Enjolras’s jaw twitched every time Grantaire’s hands came too close to it, showing he too was becoming more sensitive. All things considered, it was not the most intimate of garments. For them to hold such anticipation over its removal was perhaps strange, though Grantaire certainly understood his own emotions. They had made no effort to undress last time, and this felt significant. A final wall was falling between them with this action, leaving them both exposed and raw. Grantaire felt as if he himself were undressing, with how intensely Enjolras’s eyes shined at him. It was teasing Enjolras as much as himself, this pace, and he slid their mouths wetly together to calm their impatience. His hands continued their work as Enjolras bit at his bottom lip, and by the time they separated Enjolras’s cravat came off with him. 

He replaced it quickly enough with his lips, beginning with kisses that then moved to hints of tongue and teeth. Enjolras’s skin was so pale, it would be difficult to not leave any mark that could be later seen by servants. Grantaire kept it gentle, though he could tell Enjolras wanted more. One of his hands pressed at the back of Grantaire’s head, buried deep in his curls and holding him in his position. The other sought to accelerate things, reaching down between them and pulling buttons from their holes as Enjolras rolled his hips forward. 

Grantaire hid a moan in Enjolras’s shoulder, having been caught off guard by the sudden change in focus. His groin was certainly more insistent now, reluctant to be spoken over by his sentimental mind any longer. Each kiss and touch with Enjolras may have felt new, but these pursuits were more than familiar to his lower half. Both signifiers of their arousal made themselves sharply known to him, tenting their pants as they were and poking into the small space between them. It was becoming rather crowded on this chair, and restrictive. 

“We still have our coats on.” Grantaire interjected, breathlessly saying the words over the skin below Enjolras’s ear. “Should we perhaps explore our options?”

“The table is one, as if the floor.” Enjolras supplied quickly, clearly already having debated it in his mind. He made no attempt to disguise his interest, rolling his hips again to add to the friction and urgency. 

Grantaire did not hate the table’s prospects, but the dust sheet would be unpleasant, and the furniture a dangerous keeper of evidence should they remove it. Grantaire aso had memories of such couplings poorly done, and the bruising results of being thrust into a table’s edge again and again. As uninviting as the floor was, it seemed the better option considering how far along they already were. It was certainly too late to risk any further change of location, so they may as well be contented with the choices before them. He shared his thoughts with Enjolras. 

“I concede to your point.” Enjolras agreed distractedly, already tugging at Grantaire’s cravat to further direct him in his path down his neck. Grantaire did not quite obey, leaning closer into Enjolras’s embrace but leaving his mouth free.

“What an unusual outcome.” Grantaire’s tongue ran along the ends of his teeth as he smiled, pressing a solitary kiss against Enjolras’s chin. “I have won an argument without a fight, what is this?”

“A momentary privilege I already regret.” Enjolras left him, pulling away to climb off and look over the area before them. Grantaire appreciated his dedication to their goals, though he already missed the contact. “If we pulled down a sheet, we could even make it like a bed.”

“What imagination you have.” Grantaire said, watching fondly as Enjolras tugged one down to cover the equally dusty floor, leaving the cleaner side up. The effort was heavy with sentimentality, too, but he was hardly in the position to mock that. Perhaps they would have the opportunity for beds at some point, depending on the staffing of Enjolras’s household. Grantaire refocused on Enjolras’s narrow shoulders. What wishes he may have for the future aside, there was a scene before him to take advantage of. He brought himself up to stand with a flash of confidence, watching still, until Enjolras pulled off his waistcoat and startled Grantaire from his observation. 

In a trained response, Grantaire could not help but turn away and flush. It in some part still felt shameful to look, to see Enjolras in that state despite the fact that he now could. Enjolras paid no notice to him, as far as he could tell, too engrossed in his own undressing. Grantaire followed suit with some discomfort, overly aware of Enjolras’s presence behind him and his own actions. Grantaire had always been stocky, but knew keenly he had once had a more athletic body. It had been a while since any of his pastimes had been anything exertive, and he hardly fought enough to keep the muscle. He had gone softer in these last few years and did not have the natural slimness Enjolras did. Perhaps Enjolras would find it distasteful, though he had seen most of it before. Still, to be fully uncovered was another thing than what they had done before, as he now realized with the aversion of his own gaze. He felt his confidence quickly fading, the nervousness reaching back in as well as the urge to flee. If they could stop now, not expose themselves completely, he could wait until a darker time. The bright light offered him no disguises, and every flaw on his skin seemed illuminated as he exposed more of it. Enjolras undressed entirely out of his view, and Grantaire kept himself from seeing any of it until a hand reached to take his downturned chin and him back into a soft kiss. 

“You are hiding.” Enjolras observed, having seen through him in the way only he could. The pad of each finger was a warm, firm presence against Grantaire’s face, and the position gave him clear view of Enjolras’s bared shoulders and collarbone. Grantaire pulled the hand away to kiss each finger, their faces still level with one another, unable to look away now that he had been made to.

“I am fine.” Grantaire comforted. It was even true, having had Enjolras there to reassure him. Enjolras’s gaze was a tender exploration, holding no judgement that Grantaire could see as it traced over his chest and arms. Grantaire felt goosebumps rise to his skin wherever it fell, shivers of excitement and nervousness making him seem chilled. He felt encouraged enough to continue on to better prospects. “Let us move to the floor.”

In comparison with the warmth of the chair, the floor was a cool shock against his knees. Enjolras laid out below him, Grantaire between his legs, though Grantaire still held himself high enough above that there was not much contact between their skin. He was hesitant still, unable to completely remove his concerns despite how much his body wished for him to. His breathing seemed loud in his ears as he tried to parse through his expression if Enjolras was sure in wanting to continue. Enjolras met his stare easily, eyes holding an emotion Grantaire did not think he had ever seen directed at himself. There was no hesitation, no disgust, only the man he loved looking up at him with earnest adoration. It felt surreal to see, so unbelievably unrealistic against all of Grantaire’s beliefs. Grantaire would have been content with anything from Enjolras, but to be allowed this with such tenderness as it had was never in his wildest speculations. 

He kissed Enjolras’s collarbone, then the center of his chest, feeling overwhelmed by the beat of Enjolras’s heart under his lips. Enjolras’s arms wound themselves protectively around Grantaire’s neck, holding him close in response to the emotion that must have so visibly welled in his eyes, but other than this made little movement. Grantaire had not expected such passivity from his partner, having seen him so active in their last encounter, but was thankful to Enjolras for allowed him the opportunity to go at the speed he required. It was far slower than at the outset, allowing Grantaire to focus on each detail, each part of Enjolras’s body while noting his response to Grantaire's ministrations. It was necessary to keep his mind from running away from him, at least in this beginning. With each new motion and sign of pleasure from Enjolras he grew more sure of himself, and soon found that he missed Enjolras’s usual more demanding manner. He was unsure how to ask for it, to discover what Enjolras wished for them to do, but tried his best to find the correct words.

“How would you like to proceed?” Grantaire asked somewhat awkwardly, hands splayed across his pale ribs.

“A curious question.” Enjolras said when he could. He still interrupted himself with breathy sounds of enjoyment which reassured Grantaire to the fact that he did not dislike the current undertaking either. “Myself on top, with you inside.” He answered after only a brief moment of thought.

His surety sent a jolt through Grantaire’s body, reaching down between his legs with its flow. This was more the Enjolras he knew and expected, a man who had opinions that he would not be quiet on and confidence in his decisions. It would take a great deal of preparation to enter him without pain, but the position would give Enjolras more control. He would gladly follow his lea, having already had Enjolras follow his. 

Enjolras spread his legs further apart, making Grantaire tip closer and press their chests together. The light scratch of Enjolras’s fingernails ghosted over Grantaire’s shoulder blades, not with enough force to leave any mark but making Grantaire sharply aware of their path. Enjolras grinned, obviously happy with how distracted the movements made Grantaire. He was studying Grantaire’s responses as well, he realized, documenting them with the same fascination and dedication that Grantaire had been. They were learning each other, from each other, just as they had been since the first day they met.

He kissed Enjolras again, letting it quickly grow deep and wet. The action felt crude, messy, but somehow still chaste. That sense quickly left as they licked further into one another’s mouths. Dampness was growing in the space trapped between their bodies, slickening the small rocking of their movements against one another into a wet drag. Grantaire felt he could reach completion just from this, his entire body growing hot and thrumming with building tension. Even when he replaced his lips with fingers in Enjolras’s mouth, as had been his intention, his heart could not relax. He withdrew his now appropriately wet hand, moving it swiftly downward. Enjolras would be the death of him, surely, if they could not now take it further.

At the first finger to his entrance, Enjolras gave a small noise of discomfort and Grantaire halted all movement to let him adjust. He was earnest in his hopes to avoid causing Enjolras any pain, despite his own excitement, and had no wish to push him faster than was necessary. Had Enjolras asked, he would equally have been on the receiving end and spared him this discomfort entirely. Still, he knew enough to not make it unpleasant. Enjolras slowly relaxed around the intrusion as Grantaire worked patiently to bring the sensations from tenderness to pleasure. Enjolras began rocking back gently as silent encouragement and impatience, tensing slightly when Grantaire passed over areas of particular sensitivity but urging him to continue.

Grantaire removed his hand, bringing it back up to wet it again. He paused a moment to decorate all of Enjolras that he could reach with brushes of his lips, enjoying each new place that he found to kiss. With the insertion of the second finger in the midst of these actions, Enjolras released a needy moan and his hands curled into fists in Grantaire’s hair. He used the two to stretch Enjolras wider, but remained tentative still. Enjolras caught Grantaire’s unoccupied hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. The third had his legs shaking slightly, but he squeezed Grantaire’s hand in reassurance. Grantaire checked his face as well, letting him nodd with sure eyes before continuing It took some time for him to comfortably accommodate it, but soon Grantaire’s movements had Enjolras releasing a litany of noises that seemed half torn out of him. The sight and sensations were doing plenty for Grantaire’s own enjoyment, each sound acting as a reward to his success. 

When Enjolras gripped his bicep, Grantaire understood the message for what it was and pulled his hand out. They gracelessly traded positions, scuffling until Enjolras was over him, hair hanging down to tickle at Grantaire’s face. Enjolras swept as much of it as his fingers could hold back over his shoulders, clearing the way so that he could kiss Grantaire’s forehead and then lips uninhibited. Some strands still disobeyed him, but Grantaire hardly minded them. So long as he could see Enjolras’s face, he did not care. 

Enjolras was less patient than Grantaire had been, and quickly moved back. He took Grantaire in hand, which in itself was a blissful sensation, before positioning him where he wished. Grantaire rested both hands on Enjolras’s hips, but exerted no control over the movement. They both exhaled as Enjolras guided himself down onto Grantaire’s cock, and Grantaire could see the muscles jumping in Enjolras’s stomach with the control. Enjolras’s head tilted back, leaving his throat bared as he readjusted himself, and Grantaire felt as if he would go mad.

The movements began small and shallow, with Grantaire willing his hips not to stutter upward. Enjolras was breathing roughly, a flush having covered his cheeks and crept down into his chest. He kept his eyes closed, clearly focusing intensely on each movement, and Grantaire worried that it was still too painful. He noticed Enjolras’s own member had begun to flag, and felt the beginnings of panic tightening in his chest. Enjolras, as if somehow sensing his concern, opened his eyes again briefly and gave Grantaire a reassuring smile, before sinking slightly deeper than he had before and making them both groan. Grantaire reached out a hesitant hand to stroke Enjolras’s erection and encourage it back to its previous state, an action Enjolras by all show thought highly of.

The curls on Grantaire’s forehead clung closely to his skin with sweat, and he could see a glistening of perspiration across Enjolras’s skin as well. This room had known nothing of their like, Grantaire would imagine, this vibrant collision that marked it with their scent and sound. How long had it stood empty before they had unleashed themselves on it, gone from tearful confessions to this, disrupted the ages of grime with their acts? They would leave their mark on it, if by paths through the dust alone. A secret record for them to know, proof that this had occurred at all. Such evidence was rarely something those in their situation could leave, but it would be recognizable to no other. Grantaire looked up into Enjolras’s eyes, overcome with gratitude and love for this wonderous man who he had pulled into his life. He swept some of his hair back, though it had little effect.

Enjolras picked up his pace, and Grantaire felt as if he was coming undone. Each rise and fall was a torture and ecstasy both as Enjolras contracted around him, indicating he was reaching closer to release. Grantaire reached again for Enjolras, clumsy but enthusiastic in his haste. Enjolras thrust up into Grataire’s hand unevenly, as if his body was unsure which sensation to focus on or which direction to move. He bent down and kissed Grantaire passionately before reaching his own hand down to interlace with Grantaire’s, increasing the pace and guiding himself to completion. Enjolras shuddered as he reached it, collapsing into Grantaire’s chest as small tremors ran their course through his body.

Grantaire helped him dismount, so to speak, guiding him down to lay at his side with his hands as a gentle brace. His own state was barely in his attention, entirely bewitched by Enjolras’s flushed cheeks and happy expression as he was. It was the same sort of relaxation he had glimpsed before after they had gone riding, that expression that had prompted so much of Grantaire’s realization. Enjolras moved as if to aid Grantaire, but he was content to have him in his embrace. Grantaire caught the reaching fingers with his own, and used his other hand to stroke himself. It took no time at all before he too expended himself over Enjolras’s hip.

In the quiet moments afterwards, Grantaire attempted to orient his new understanding of the world. It was one where he could have his limbs tangled with Enjolras’s with the sticky remnants of their actions across his chest. One where they would have to keep this secret from nearly everyone around them. They had each other, their sentiments, and an entirely uncertain future. Still, Grantaire could not feel it in himself to turn entirely negative with Enjolras as a warm and comforting presence against his side. There was much still that needed to be said between them, but now Grantaire at least felt he had the confidence to say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so unbelievably late I am so so sorry. Rip all my confidence in a fast update after last chapter, somehow this hot mess took me an unbelievably long time to write
> 
> Itsybitsyanansi and sweetsandstoryz, you're the real ones and the only reason it didn't take another week to finish. I blame you for the use of the word member and the moral step down I had to take with it, but appreciate the help


	19. Sketches of a Promise

If Grantaire could have done, he would have kept them both on the floor of that room forever. He would have been content, he was sure, with no other entertainment than tracing his fingers lightly across Enjolras’s exposed skin, mapping small moles and marks. There were so many things for him to discover there, how could he tire of it? For example, Enjolras had a faint scar on his side, nearly impossible to notice except for its slightly shimmering sheen when the light caught the right angle. He only had to brush his hand across before Enjolras explained it as from taking a hard fall off a horse when he was young, having been too confident in his abilities and too bold in his challenges. That was not how he phrased it, of course, but Grantaire could understand him through the words said. Enjolras found scars on him as well, from fights and falls alike, that Grantaire also easily gave the stories behind. To have finally removed their clothes and revealed all these hidden histories, which they had spent the hours sharing to one another, that was this new kind of intimacy they discovered together. Grantaire would have been happy in that one moment forever. 

But the world did not change the same time his relationship with Enjolras did, did not become kinder with each kiss pressed against his cheeks. However long they may have spent on the floor of that room while Grantaire’s life reoriented itself, it had no effect on the grand scheme of things, nor did it even disturb a single leaf beyond the window. There were still many things that demanded Enjolras’s attention, Grantaire’s fear. Neither of them were capable of being self contained and unaware, and therefore no matter how Grantaire may have wished it not to, that moment soon came to an end. They redressed themselves, organized the room as best they could, and moved forward. As was the natural turning of time. 

It had made most sense for Grantaire to leave immediately after, though he did not wish to. They could not afford to be careless in their happiness, not extending visits longer than they usually occurred, and spending enough of them acting as nothing more than friends in full view to decrease suspicion would be necessary measures. For those other times they had the grounds, expanses of countryside which were largely empty, as well as much of the house on their side, but each location was still in some way reckless. Even secretive meetings in town, rented rooms, or whatever it was that adulterous couples made use of were not open to them. Their group had become too noticeable, Enjolras too recognizable even to those completely uninterested in the members of local high society. This was not an easy secret to reconcile with the revolutionary lifestyle, or even those of gentlemen. 

So Grantaire had reconciled himself to a scarcity of stolen kisses and whatever else they could manage, and was glad for even that much. He headed home, when Enjolras had freed him from lingering kisses, tried not to let himself second guess all of their actions, then went for drinks with Joly and Bossuet. He spent the evening distracted and enjoying himself, and when Bossuet asked if whatever argument he and Enjolras had been going through the past few days was still on, he easily replied that everything had been resolved. He was content, or at least as much so as Grantaire was ever capable of being. 

His concerns were certainly present, the difficulties they would face came in great number, likely reaching a far greater count than even the worst of Grantaire’s fears could tally. Being put to death was not even the worst of the results, at least in his consideration. Despite this, his joy maintained a persistent presence, lightening the weight on his shoulders, even if it could not remove it completely. As cruel as the world was at least it had been negligent in its punishment enough to let them find each other. When he returned home, he slept dreamlessly.

He had not expected to see Enjolras as soon after as he did, as Grantaire had assumed they would take at least a day’s space. It was perhaps a habit held over from his more casual relationships, men who had no interest in him beyond having specific needs filled. None of them would have appeared at his house the next afternoon, just as he was considering seeking out Jehan or someone to occupy his time. None would have known his habits that well, or wanted to see him. He saw the approach from his bedroom window, and was able to meet Enjolras at the door. Grantaire would not admit to how breathless the quick descent made him, as that would involve confessing that he had run.

“Mr. Enjolras,” He greeted, already having broken into a grin he could not control while his breathing tried to settle. Normally he may have panicked at Enjolras’s motives for having appeared so soon, but there was nothing in Enjolras’s expression that caused him any fear. “Well met.”

“Mr. Grantaire,” Enjolras answered, nodding his head. He went through the motions of clasping Grantaire on the shoulder, though it was much more of a gentle caress and far closer to his neck. Grantaire missed the touch as soon as it was gone. “Good afternoon.”

The formality, where yesterday it had felt like a knife in Grantaire’s chest, now made him feel like a schoolboy giggling with his friend over some secret kept between them. The concealment made him oddly giddy, though Enjolras seemed to be matching his energy. He let the behavior be somewhat exaggerated, even offering a bow as he opened the door wide enough to allow them both through. Enjolras made sure to collide with Grantaire’s shoulder in his passing, in attempt to jostle him out of the stance in an equally childish response. Grantaire was unaffected by the impact, but straightened in a willing defeat. They stayed closer to each other than was entirely necessary, though they did not collide again.

They would have some privacy, seeing as it was Grantaire who had met him at the door and not any of the servants. He could hope at least that they would be undisturbed because of this, leaving him to enjoy Enjolras’s company under less pretense. Grantaire took them to the studio again, as the sitting room felt too formal, and it was at this point some level of a tradition for Enjolras’s unexpected appearances. That choice came with the sacrifice of tall windows, barring a great deal of activities beyond conversation, but Grantaire had no expectations. 

“How are you?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras looked smug, in the way that he always did before he said something he considered particularly clever. 

“I have had some positive developments in my life as of late.” He said, side-eying Grantaire as he did. 

“How coincidental, I have as well.” He responded, mimicking a thoughtful surprise. Enjolras laughed as if Grantaire had actually had some witty insight, the sound echoing of the creaking walls of his house. It was a happier sound than they often heard, and Grantaire felt as if they were both walking on air.

He was enamored, happy to simply be back near Enjolras, and to know neither of them had changed their minds since they had last seen one another. Each small brush of the fabric of their sleeves caught his attention, each small glance between them that they quickly pulled away from with a smile. Because of these distractions he did not think much on his choice of location. Particularly absent from his planning was the current state of it, having lived the privileged lifestyle of most of his spaces being cleaned by efforts other than his. The studio was an exception, with the intention of keeping his displays undisturbed, and was not intended as a space for greeting guests and did not need to meet the same standards. The mess he had left during his last visit to the room, the squalor Combeferre and Courfeyrac had found him in, was therefore all where he had left it. The sight accosted him as soon as he opened the door. 

“Forgive the state of the room.” He said, overly flustered. It was not as if Enjolras had not seen worse, but he suddenly felt embarrassed by the reminder of how deep in misunderstanding they had been not more than a day previous. 

“I do not mind it.” Enjolras picked up a bottle, placing it with the others Grantaire was busily collecting. They at least could be organized to clear up the floor space a bit more. Even with them removed there would still be a strong sense of disorder, but Grantaire was hardly capable of fixing that. At least he was better dressed this time, though Enjolras might not have been bothered if he was not. 

“Have you come to ensure that I had not hidden myself away again?” They could speak more openly now, with the confidence that their voices were not carrying elsewhere in the house. He was facing his weak organization as he spoke, already having lost all motivation to continue. It would do.

“No, I simply missed you.”

Grantaire’s heart reacted extensively, but all that changed outwardly was a smile Enjolras could not see. He was glad to have someone as bold and honest as Enjolras. How quickly he had adjusted to easily communicating his feelings to Grantaire, when Grantaire, out of habit, had aimed for emotionally distant teasing. He turned back, doing his best to be equally open.

“And I you.” He said.

Enjolras took a chair originally meant for portrait sittings as his perch. It creaked audibly as he adjusted himself, but Grantaire knew it was sturdy enough to provide no real threat beyond loud protests. He looked far less stiff in it than most models would, and Grantaire felt the vague urge to paint him just as he was. The relaxed pose and expression would either have him celebrated or condemned, if he was to share it, though he did not think he would. An oil painting was hardly something that would fit away in a locket or watch, but Grantaire would still treasure it as a keepsake. His art had always been better for personal expression than display, anyway. 

The sight of Enjolras, settling so easily into the middle of the room, sparked memories of Grantaire’s as well. He was not in the same place Grantaire had chosen for his spot on the floor, nor was anything about the scene particularly similar, but the words Grantaire had said came echoing back to him all the same. He leaned back into the edge of a table, feeling the edge bite into his palms as they splayed out behind him. He had spoken of Enjolras in this room recently enough that the walls held the memory, even if Grantaire had let it slip away from him. 

“There is something we need to speak about.” Grantaire said, already hearing hesitation in his voice. Enjolras noticed it too, frowning for the first time since arrival as Grantaire’s face changed to close off yet again. 

“And here I thought I was the one who sought you out.” The tone was light, likely following Grantaire’s usual strategy, but his expression was more serious. “What is it?”

Grantaire likely should have told him all of this yesterday, had it cleared out and understood with all the rest, but there had been so many words said between them already. Even if the sentiments had been put into the air, they would have been lost in the tangle of everything else, he was sure. He hoped Enjolras would not resent the delay, or the action, but it was something that needed to be passed on. His feet shifted, as if wanting to pull him subconsciously towards the door and create a clear escape route.

“You had suspected Combeferre and Courfeyrac were part of prompting me to visit yesterday.” 

He half wondered if Enjolras would make the jump immediately, understand it from some line of tension in his shoulders. It would certainly make his job easier, though it would probably be better for him if he could at least say it. Enjolras only waited for him to continue, showing no signs of having figured him out. 

“I had.” He encouraged. 

“Your guess was accurate.” Grantaire felt frustratingly restless, moving about a timepiece that had been abandoned on the table as if it would speed up his process. “They were a great help while they were here, mostly in my avoidance of you and my feelings for you.” Enjolras’s back left that of the chair as he sat up.

“They knew of them?” Grantaire nodded, tongue tracing the ridges at the top of his mouth. 

“I told Combeferre after my brother was born. Courfeyrac some time later.” 

Enjolras was clearly surprised by this, though it was only half way to Grantaire’s real confession. Grantaire was unsure what aspect it was that had thrown Enjolras the most, that Grantaire had felt close enough to the two of them after this short time to tell them something so dangerous, that they had kept it from Enjolras and, for a time, from each other? He had rattled all three of them in this progression, which was not something he was very happy for having achieved. 

“They aided you?” Enjolras’s curiosity was stronger than his shock, making sure to push yet another question in. His brow remained furrowed, thoughts clearly working at some rigorous pace. 

“They did.” They had been worthy counselors, as well as shields when they were more willing to enable Grantaire’s avoidance of it all. That too was something for him to hold guilt over, and he added it to his explanation as well. “I felt terrible for having stolen them for my own use, they were your friends before mine.” 

“Their actions are their own, and I would hardly resent them for being what you needed.” He looked genuine, like Grantaire’s need of them was equal to his own. Grantaire tried to apologize more clearly, but Enjolras was ahead of him. “They helped me where they could as well. Do not worry over it.” 

He looked eased, likely assuming that was what Grantaire wished for them to speak on, and that it was now resolved. Grantaire considered letting it slip away just as that, leaving the rest unsaid, but could not justify it. Combeferre might actually break his pacifist tendencies and kill Grantaire if he tried it, and more so he had no wish to keep Enjolras with him on only half truths. From early on they had understood not hiding things from one another, though it had taken much longer to reach proper execution of the philosophy. Even now it was flawed, but Grantaire could not use that as an excuse.

“I told them about the night at the ball.” Grantaire confessed before his mouth would stop him, despite it usually being much the opposite exchange. When Enjolras’s face immediately turned pink, he quickly rephrased. “Nothing past the kiss, I swear on it, but I did say you were the initiator. That is what I mean to tell you.”

Grantaire looked away after speaking, not wanting to watch what Enjolras’s face may say. It was perhaps a cowardly move, but less bad than running. He kept what had been confessed to him to get that information silent, as they were their secrets to tell. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had given him their trust, and he would not take that liberty again. 

“They suspected, I think.” Enjolras said quietly, pulling Grantaire’s eyes to him immediately. “I had never before come to them with questions of affections, and there weren’t many others in my life for them to consider but you. I doubt I was very subtle in my specificity, either. Nothing I asked could be easily passed as mere curiosity for Pontmercy’s situation.” 

It made sense that Enjolras’s first instinct on a full realization would have been to ask questions, and that he went to those two to ask them. Grantaire almost jealously wished that Enjolras had come to him instead, though he recognized the ridiculousness of that situation. He, out of his own selfishness, hoped that Enjolras was right and he had not revealed anything new to them. His regret was not so easily distracted by that convenient excuse, but he was relieved that Enjolras had not had any drastic reaction. It would have been justified, he knew, and Grantaire would have been far less calm if he were in Enjolras’s shoes. He still waited to see if a delayed one would come. 

In a slightly tangential thought, if Combeferre and Courfeyrac had suspected as Enjolras thought, Grantaire would have to personally commend their acting abilities. He had frequently gotten the sense they had things they were not telling him, but he had assumed it more on their guilt of taking Grantaire’s side when he wanted their protection. He had so mocked them for their lack of discretion when he first met the two, but clearly he had misjudged the young gentlemen. They had a greater talent for it than he had believed. 

“That certainly explains some of the looks Combeferre turned on me.” Grantaire said, trying to make humour of it when Enjolras stayed silent for long enough. “If they were not already gone I would offer sincere apologies for the frustration.”

Enjolras still said nothing, looking up at Grantaire briefly when he spoke, but soon letting them drop back down into that suspended look, where all his focus had retreated into his own mind. Grantaire wondered what was being said in there, as Enjolras showed no marks in his expression that would tell him. Grantaire’s only indicator was a tightly wrapped fist against the arm of the chair, which was less than encouraging.

“Are you angry with me?” 

It would likely be better for him to leave this bear unpoked, to let Enjolras settle on a conclusion without trying to interrupt him, but Grantaire was not feeling that patient. If he had ruined this new thing between them so quickly, he wanted to at least know it. If his mind was left to make its own assumptions, they would be quickly led back into the messes of misunderstanding. He needed to hear it said, though it was perhaps less than good of him to pressure Enjolras more quickly towards a conclusion. 

“I know them to be trustworthy, they have been by my side most of my life. If you thought it safe to tell them, I would be the last to question that.” Enjolras answered, his hand flexing as he attempted to release his own grip. He must have known that was what drew Grantaire’s attention. 

“That does not mean you do not get to be angry.” Enjolras did get to be, and if he wasn’t yet Grantaire may be on his way to annoying him into that state. Enjolras was reactive, and this neutrality frightened him. Anger was the justified response, the one Grantaire deserved. Who he had told was less important than the fact that he had told, and he knew Enjolras knew that as well, but he needed a reaction from him for Grantaire to know how to proceed.

“I am angry, it was not for you to say. Is that what you want to hear from me?” Enjolras asked, looking over to Grantaire with a set to his jaw. It was still so small a response, but a crack through the marble expression just as Grantaire wanted. He pushed further, trying to challenge Enjolras into rising to it.

“That is what I think you would say, if you did not feel the need to restrain yourself because of what we now have together.” Enjolras would not have shown this hesitation in any other case, he was not the sort of man to keep his opinions to himself. Grantaire would rather have harsh but true words now, rather than that anger being turned on something unrelated and small after building up far more. He did not want that kind of brutal wait. “Tell me, so I may know where we stand.” 

“I am angry.” Enjolras’s voice was much calmer than the words would suggest, but it was still sharp in its efficiency of interjection. His eyes were trained closely on Grantaire, holding his gaze as soon as it was caught and trapping him there in the conversation. “I am angry, and upset that they were told out of my control.” 

“I should not have told them.” Grantaire said, trying not to sound relieved. He was genuine, of course, but glad to have Enjolras speaking. If they were speaking, Enjolras was not leaving, and Grantaire could apologize.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Enjolras was firm, but made no effort to raise his voice. “I would ask you not speak for me in that way again. Just because I do not take such steps as quickly as you does not mean I want them taken for me.” Grantaire nodded. 

“Understood. Of course.” 

“Good, then.” Enjolras pulled some stray hairs from his face, showing another sliver of frustration. He spoke just as Grantaire opened his mouth to say more. “Just give me a moment, Grantaire. I do not need to leave, as I would have more to say on this, but I need some time with my thoughts first.”

He had pushed Enjolras too far, Grantaire realized, in trying to see a reaction that Enjolras had not yet formed. Grantaire supposed he was so used to Enjolras’s quick responses, that he had let himself feel selfishly entitled to one. He had hurt Enjolras already with his actions, and made it worse in his demand for a quick solution. The first obstacle in their relationship he had wanted to pass quickly, either to immediately know the damage it would cause or to be cleanly beyond it, but in doing so had forgotten to account for the other party. Perhaps if Grantaire had some great list of experience before this, he would not feel so insufficiently prepared. As he was now, all he could do was give Enjolras the space he asked for and hope that it was the right decision.

Grantaire made a personal show of engrossing himself into a work in progress, picking up the paints and studying his compositional sketches despite his lack of interest in it. The painting was uninspired and ugly even in these early stages, but it provided him with some activity rather than simply sitting and staring at Enjolras. After a long enough time had passed, Grantaire began working on it in earnest, absorbing himself into his planning and trying to keep himself from looking over to Enjolras. It felt opposite to when he had stayed in the silent library with him in those early days, scratching at his sketchbook as an attempt for attention. Grantaire carefully mapped the use of red pigment as it would be used throughout the painting, letting the palette look bloodstained in its shades. Oils were a far quieter medium than charcoal. 

He noticed Enjolras’s approach as it was made, the soft footfalls being louder than the sound of his brush, but he continued working as if he had not made any note of it. Enjolras came up to his side, looking over the canvas curiously. It did not look like much now, an indistinct underpainting with some splotches of color over it, but he lowered his brush so that Enjolras could look as much as he wished to. His shoulder was close enough to Grantaire’s that he could just nearly feel the heat from him, hands loose by his sides. He had come to terms with whatever conclusion he had made already, Grantaire was certain of it.

“This was not here when I last visited this room.” He said.

“It has been a while since you were last here. It is not entirely new, I have just been sporadic in my dedication to it.” 

Grantaire put the palette and brush down as Enjolras nodded, eyes having already left the painting and gone to study the dried flecks of paint that clung to the easel’s edge. There would be more of it around, if Grantaire did not wash out his brush, but for now he hoped being deposited in a murky glass of water was enough treatment. He looked at Enjolras as well as he could from his periphery, though he was not much more than a blonde and red blur, before bowing his head. 

“I am sorry.” He said. He should have said it far earlier, but he still wished for Enjolras to know.

“I know.” Enjolras replied, as if having heard his thoughts.

They continued standing together, now with neither of them actually focused on the painting before them. Enjolras shifted incrementally closer with the natural movement of his legs after standing still for so long, bringing the backs of their hands to brush together. With slow, careful movements, his fingers found each Grantaire’s and pulled their palms together. From the angle they were in, their hands would be hidden from the view of the windows. Grantaire hardly had a spare moment to worry, even if they hadn’t, mind completely taken over by Enjolras’s actions. 

“If you have others you trust in that way, perhaps we can tell them together.” Enjolras said. “When I am ready.” He added, as if losing his resolve a bit. 

“When we are ready.” Grantaire agreed. He was forgiven, and his relief left Grantaire winded. 

A knock on the door had them pulling sharply away from one another, Grantaire retreating back into the room as quickly as he could. His hand now felt cold, lacking Enjolras’s against it, but he could not have taken the action any later as the door opened without his assent before he had even finished his retreat. Perhaps there were disadvantages to the familiarity of his household staff, as his friends had less a care should they interrupt him. Bossuet pushed into the room with his shoulder, looking down at something in his hands. 

“R, I’ve just met a man out front who-” He looked up, and cut himself off in his surprise. “Ah, Mr. Enjolras, sir, good afternoon. They were sure you were here, but I hadn’t known you were calling on Grantaire today.”

“Who was sure, Bossuet?” Grantaire asked, coming forward to take the paper from his hands. It was very clearly addressed to Enjolras, though it was more a note sent between houses than a long distance letter. Clearly it was something of more immediate notice. 

“I didn’t have much time to ask, he said he had a missive for the young Enjolras.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bossuet.” Enjolras was suddenly at his side, taking the note into his own hands. He studied the outside, where his name was written, but made no move to unfold it before tucking it away and looking up. “I hope you and Mr. Joly are both well?”

“We are, thank you. Looking forward to the next visit to town, hearing more of what you and your friends have to say about the state of things.” 

“I hope to hear more of your perspectives as well.” Bossuet smiled at Enjolras’s honest interest, charmed by it. He tipped his head forward slightly, only somewhat more formal than how he treated Grantaire, to make his return to work clear. 

“Glad to see you back round, Mr. Enjolras. Good day.”

Grantaire ensured that the door closed soundly behind him, glad that it had only been Bossuet but still rattled from the scare. He let the door make a clear click before turning away from it, where he found Enjolras already intently reading the note. He must have struggled to contain his curiosity out of politeness towards Bossuet, but held no such reservations around Grantaire. 

“What is it?” He asked. “Is there anything wrong?” Enjolras did not answer, looking pale and stiff. In a quick motion, the note crumpled in his hand. 

“We should go to London.” Enjolras said.

“What?” It was clear Enjolras only half heard him, already making the sort of expression he did when forming some elaborate plan. The paper fell to his feet, rolling some distance away, and while Grantaire picked it up, he did not unfold it.

“London. Your father said he would send money for you to get an apartment somewhere, did he not? Or even if he didn’t, London is a great city with a lot of work. We could support ourselves.”

Grantaire was reminded of why it took two other people combined with Enjolras to make any plan work, as that was a drastic misjudgement of either of their manual skills. Enjolras was still frozen, staring into some middle distance that was certainly not Grantaire. He approached hesitantly, still trying to get Enjolras to explain.

“Enjolras, what on earth are you talking about?” He laughed weakly. “Just a moment ago I was half convinced you hated me, now some note makes you want to fly to London?”

“Not London, then. It could be anywhere, I would not mind.” Enjolras paused half a moment. “And I was angry with you, I did not hate you. We have dealt with that already.”

“Past tense already, I admire your efficiency.” Grantaire had not thought that really resolved, but it seemed Enjolras had lost him again. 

“That is not important anymore. London, Grantaire, would you come?”

The note was still in Grantaire’s hand, with whatever had prompted this written in it, but rather than opening it he took back the hand that had held his earlier to try and anchor Enjolras in some way. He spared a glance to the windows, but luckily saw no one beyond them. Even so, he tried to angle their bodies as to in some way disguise it. He may have no idea what was going on, but if he was to be the calm one between them he could do his best to keep them safe.

“Enjolras, Enjolras. Please tell me what caused this.” He said gently. The anchor was deemed belatedly effective, Enjolras’s eyes latching onto his with a sort of desperate intensity. 

“My parents are back.” The words, as well as how Enjolras said them, hit Grantaire like a kick in the chest. “They are at the house this very moment, and have sent that note to call me to them. They must have heard of my friends visiting, or we were too obvious with the ball. I was careless, and now they are back.” 

“You have people here now, they would not be able to isolate you again.” Grantaire comforted, though he was quickly dismissed.

“I returned to the same sort of illegal practices they took me away from. If anything, this would be the validation for them to try harder.” 

Enjolras looked intensely afraid. He was a brave man, the kind that would stare down any force on earth, but his parents still scared him into such a state with nothing more than a summons. The hand in Grantaire’s was trembling, and its partner came to frantically grab at Grantaire’s arm. Their pose was less easy to disguise now, but that was only at the back of Grantaire’s mind. Enjolras demanded his primary attention, gripping him tightly in both tethers. 

“We could get away from it, leave this town and our families far behind us.” Enjolras leaned close with wild eyes “Go to a city, go to our friends, run from this.”

“That suggestion is far more like me than you.”

Enjolras did not have a plan, he had nothing beyond an instinct to run. The man was panicking, desperate to escape. Grantaire could understand the emotion, of course he could. He had felt it only minutes ago during the space of Enjolras’s silence. He did not know how to talk someone down from it, especially when it seemed like the right solution.

“So you would agree then?” Grantaire tried to say that he had not, but Enjolras was already jumping into their future. “We could live together, be our own household. There would be no pressure on me to marry, no expectations.” 

“Enjolras, there would still be-” Enjolras spoke over him again. 

“We would be happy, I’m certain of it. There are more men like us in the cities, they all manage it.” Grantaire pulled free of Enjolras’s grasp, stepping away with a much firmer voice.

“Enjolras, I can’t.” His words brought silence sharply down on them both, leaving Enjolras taken aback. He lowered his arms slowly from where they had been holding his arms as Grantaire continued speaking. “I would want nothing more than to run away with you, surely you know that. But I can’t.”

Grantaire did not need to guess at Enjolras’s stance to know he felt betrayed and confused by his refusal, as unexpected as it was. It was out of character, certainly, and not even Grantaire would have predicted it of himself. Maybe Enjolras assumed it was out of cowardice, as if Grantaire would be comfortable in all defiance but this. There was a part of him that knew Enjolras’s ideas of their future were too unrealistic, too unachievable, but that was not the reason for his hesitation.

“Why?” Enjolras’s voice had gone cool and emotionless, the question demanding an immediate response. Grantaire already had one. 

“I have a brother here.” Grantaire said, inclining his head in direction of the nursery, a floor above. “I have a responsibility to him, in making sure he does not turn out as I or my sister did. I could not flee here knowing I left someone else behind to suffer the same thing I had left.”

Enjolras’s demeanor quickly softened with Grantaire’s explanation, becoming unsure. It was an unusual expression to see on his face, and Grantaire was frightened by the fact that he was the one to cause it. 

“Should I stay, then, as to not leave you behind?” Enjolras asked, watching Grantaire’s eyes for approval. Grantaire shook his head. That was not something he could ask of Enjolras, would ever ask of him. It would fulfill everything he had feared in holding the man back, trying to contain them both in the exact sort of way he knew neither would enjoy. 

“I would not trap you here, either. Your instinct to leave is likely the right one.” It was not what Grantaire wanted to suggest, but it was the truth. Enjolras’s impulses were different than his own, and there was more for Enjolras in the cities than what being with Grantaire would bring. “You have responsibilities, too, Enjolras. Do not look at me that way, you know I would not mean to your parents, but I know your cause lies outside the bounds of this town.” 

Enjolras’s heart had always been elsewhere. He was kept here by force, not because he belonged here. Neither did Grantaire, in truth, but he had made the best of it he could. He had allies here, had learned to survive before Enjolras, and in theory could do so after. What would they even do with one another, if they went? Enjolras could only live the lifestyle he did because he had the time to write petitions, to organize protests. To leave on his own to the city would be less of an offense to his parents than to flee with someone of lower standing and questionable reputation. Even if Grantaire lost his conviction on staying here, which was fragile in its best chances, what happiness would they bring each other?

“What are you saying, then?” Enjolras asked.

What was Grantaire saying? He hardly knew, as it all sounded far too mature to be anything truly coming from his mind. He wanted to go with Enjolras, desperately so, but he couldn’t. At least not until his brother was sent away to school, or his father died. If the man could plan so callously around the death of an infant, Grantaire could certainly plan around his without guilt. A great deal of time would be lost in between, no matter which ending he settled on. Grantaire would certainly wait that long for Enjolras, but he did not know if he could ask Enjolras for the same.

“I am saying not now.” He said. “I am promising one day, promising a future, if you would want it. But I cannot promise you now.” 

Enjolras had told him to trust that his feelings for Grantaire were not less than his own, even if he did not have the vocabulary for it, but did they have the same devotion? It was a crisis Grantaire had tried to convince himself not to have, but of course he had not anticipated being forced to face it so aggressively. The word wait was so heavy on his tongue, having been hopeful when they thought of telling some of their friends about them, but now it hung over Grantaire like a threat. They had been together only a day, who was he to ask Enjolras to wait?

“You would follow me to London?” Enjolras asked, confirming at least part of what Grantaire had said. Grantaire, as always, could answer Enjolras with nothing but honesty.

“I would follow you anywhere. To a penal colony, if they sent you. In death, after the years allowed. Anywhere.”

“But not now.” Enjolras did not phrase this like a question, but Grantaire answered anyway.

“Not now.” 

Enjolras was not happy, but he had calmed. Maybe that admittance from Grantaire was all he needed to no longer feel so betrayed. Maybe he valued that promise in the same way that Grantaire did, and was willing to make the same. He looked to be planning again, and this time Grantaire hoped more rational thoughts were working to compose it, and that he would like the result. 

“You could visit,” Enjolras offered. “For a part of the year at least. It would keep you entertained far more than this town ever would, and it would not raise too many questions to stay with a friend as someone from out of town. There could be letters for the rest. We need not let the distance be as great as it is.”

Grantaire let out a small laugh of surprise. Of course Enjolras would be stubborn enough to find a more hopeful way around Grantaire’s bleak imaginings, to speak as if he could change the shape of the world to fit his hopes of intimacy. His proposed system seemed nearly bearable, proof that he too had no wish to separate from Grantaire, and that he still believed keeping them tied to one another was the best possible choice. 

“We could make proper spies of one another.” Make real those charges of espionage Enjolras surely had against him, though in a far different kind of illegal practice than they might expect. “There would be years, Enjolras, years where I could not always visit and where we could not see one another. Would you still want me through that?” Enjolras had no hesitation. 

“Of course. I would wait for you, if you would want me to.”

“I cannot say I am opposed.” His heart felt lighter, making words come easier to him than they had since Enjolras’s arrival. He had been too easily forgiven, too easily sworn to, but they were things he still had the chance to figure out with Enjolras together. “I imagine Hades and Persephone might have planned similarly. Am I to be taken away for the winter?” 

Enjolras did not answer, but he did pull the easel around so to cover their faces with the canvas and bent down to kiss Grantaire. It was soft and chaste, a promise said against his lips in a way other than words. It was more than Grantaire deserved, but he pressed up into it gratefully. They would have the chance for other things, not now, not soon, but this was not a goodbye. 

“I will go home, get my things, then leave when I have found the opportunity. Combeferre will let me stay with him, should I be cut off.” Enjolras said, whispering the words close to Grantaire’s face. Grantaire wished desperately to make his expression happier, to make this easier on them both. They were drawn in different directions, which was something he had always feared, but at least Enjolras still refused to have him be left behind. 

“I will write to him as soon as you go, and hope it arrives before you do. My final task as messenger.” Enjolras laughed quietly, though it was short lived. Grantaire brought a hand to his cheek, chasing that flash of happiness with his touch. “For all that it matters, I do not think they will remove you as their son. By some miracle, I was not.”

“What terrible heirs we have made out to be.” Enjolras commented absently. 

“We have mastered the art of insolence, truly.” Grantaire responded. “But I am being serious. You have less to fear from them than you think, I am sure of it.” 

Enjolras studied him, not responding to any of what Grantaire had said. He was not usually the optimist of their pair, but he considered it realistic. Enjolras was their only child, unless Enjolras was direct in proclaiming his true relationship to Grantaire, he did not think it was likely for him to lose his standing. There were lies his parents could tell, of a son off to experience city society, or studying abroad. They could distance themselves in ways other than the law, as Grantaire’s own father had. There were ways such things were managed, Grantaire had seen enough of it to know.

“I admire what you want to do for your brother, it is very brave.” Enjolras said, cutting off Grantaire’s logical progressions. He scoffed dismissively. 

“I am not the one who will be rioting in the streets.” Enjolras was unconvinced.

“It is brave.” He insisted yet again. “I wish that you would come with me, but I recognize what it means for you to not.” Grantaire took the back of Enjolras’s neck to press their foreheads together gently.

“I will come in January.” And one day, after that, he would come for good. He would swear it to himself, as little as his word could be worth. Then he would not be running away from something, but instead heading toward it. 

Grantaire wished half of this meeting had not been spent angry with each other, though he would not have had it gone unsaid. How rough a start they had, now to their friendship and relationship both. As much as he hated his actions in each beginning, if the prior was any indicator, what they would build together would be worth these missteps. Grantaire did not care for hope, but he could anticipate that same potential as the fair, practical assumption in accordance with past evidence. If they put the effort towards it, they would build something that defied all of how the world wanted them to exist. They may even be happy doing it. He kissed Enjolras again. 

“After just a day I missed you, how will I survive all those months?” Enjolras asked when they parted. 

“By knowing I would stand by you for all of it, if I could.” Eyebrows were raised dubiously in his direction. 

“A bold claim, from a self proclaimed cynic.”

“My role is to state the truth, and that is it.” He stepped back, not yet leaving the cover of the canvas, but removing himself from Enjolras’s arms. It was one of the hardest actions he had ever taken in his life, though it lasted less than a second. “I love you, Enjolras. Stay safe until I am there.”

“I will try.” He took a deep breath, collecting himself. “Give my farewells to Mr. Joly and Mr. Bossuet? I regret disappointing them, though they have the others in town still.” Grantaire retreated back into the guise of polite exchange as well, letting the facade relax his face and hold back the bitter taste in his mouth. 

“They will be passed along.” He said, pulling at one of his sleeves to straighten it, as well as to keep himself from reaching out to grab hold of Enjolras and never release him. 

“My departure permitting, I will do my best to see you once more.” Grantaire did not know if he could survive a second conversation such as this one, but he would not refuse it. 

“I look forward to our next meeting.” He said.

Watching Enjolras leave, first through the door of the studio, and then through the windows, was agonizing. He expected to cry, to collapse on the floor with heaving sobs, or desperately go searching for a bottle, but did none of those things as he watched Enjolras vanish fully from view. This was not a goodbye, there was nothing final in this separation. They would find one another again, this Grantaire was sure of. It was not something he would give up on, not anything he would abandon. Enjolras would wait for him, and he would come. He closed his eyes, though no unneeded tears fell from them, and decided to visit the nursery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys hate the ending, just yell at me and I'll change it. This fic turned out so unbelievably long, and I still feel like there is more I could say and different ways I could say it. 
> 
> There is now an epilogue! Felt too long to make a chapter so it’s now next in the series.
> 
> Many thanks to all you commenters, kudos leavers, and friends, I probably wouldn't have gotten this far without the wonderful support you have given me. While I'm sure this fic had its growing pains, I thank you all for sitting through them. I started writing this story exactly a year from when I wrote my first fic ever, and had you asked me a year ago if I thought I could write more than 100,000 words, I would have called bs. I definitely feel like I've come a long way, and I hope to continue growing my skills as well as my wordcount 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> The fathers aren't going to be big characters, but they are necessary for the set up :/ Also sorry if this chapter contradicts itself I reorganized it like four times


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